


all the young dudes

by 2seater



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, College Student Peter Parker, Domestic, Drug Addiction, Feminine Peter Parker, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mercenary Wade Wilson, Mild Language, Nosebleeds, Not a lot of angst, Peter has Freckles, Pop Culture, Protective Wade Wilson, Really Bad Puns, Smoking, Strangers to Lovers, Underage Drinking, Virgin Peter Parker, boys doing stuff in nyc, clumsy peter parker, lots of bowie, meet cute, no powers, references to new wave, wade wilson scars, yellow/white boxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-08-03 21:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2seater/pseuds/2seater
Summary: wade wilson loves mexican cuisine, david bowie, and peter parker (or the freckle-faced college student who couldn’t steer a bike to save his life).( discontinued )





	1. half life

**Author's Note:**

> hey ! sorta new to this so don't judge 2 hard i guess. i'll be adding some song recs to the beginning of every chapter (hopefully). not reallly sure how long this gonna be yet, or where i'm going with it, but we'll see! 
> 
>  
> 
> song recs: 
> 
> telephone line - electric light orchestra  
> half life - the symposium  
> baby don'chu worry - yung heazy

        The night Peter Parker crashed his black Schwinn cruiser into the poorly painted concrete curb in front of a local bodega was quite possibly one of the most perplexing evenings known to man, at least to nineteen-year-old Peter (who was more on the 'cusp' of being a man).

  
       Sitting on the cement in a daze, the college student quietly winced at the stinging pain in his palms and knees, carefully running slender fingers over the torn skin. He sucked in a sharp breath when he pressed into one sore particularly hard, his eyes watering slightly at the pain. He reached over to his messenger bag, which had flown out of his basket upon impact, the leather now severely scuffed. Fishing out a half-empty water bottle and his hand-me-down sweatshirt, Peter began to tend to his wounds. He gently poured water over the cuts, dabbing them lightly with the slightly damp sweater; it was in no way sanitary, probably doused in coffee and sweat. Peter frowned at the cloth that was now smothered in the crimson color of blood.

  
             "Mays's gonna kill me.." he mumbled to himself in the lone of the suspiciously quiet Queens street, knowing that not only would he be in scolded for ruining his Aunt's twenty-year-old college sweater, but for being late to dinner for the third time in a month.

     Peter shakily pulls out his phone from his back pocket, hoping to call his Aunt and explain himself. Cursing at his freshly cracked phone screen, Peter opens his damaged device only to find he had little to no cell service in this particular area. 

   
      Peter was in no state to bike to his childhood home. His hands burned against the surprisingly soft fabric of the worn-in sweatshirt, so gripping his handlebars for another mile and a half was a no go. Peter could always take the train, but coincidentally, left his metro card and the very little cash he had at his dorm. He pouted to himself again, and then at the newly ripped holes in his jeans, and once more at his black bike haphazardly leaning against the very curb he crashed into.

  
           "Gotta say, that was a pretty impressive wipe-out," a voice slyly comments from behind Peter. The college student turns around to see a towering figure hovering over him, a large slurpee in hand and a smirk on his shadowed face. Peter quirked an eyebrow at the stranger, confusion and slight panic flashing across his freckled face.

  
      In the dimming neon lights of the corner store, he could see what looked to be bouts of red, irritated patches along the stranger's neck and the underside of his jaw, disappearing beneath a black scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Peter didn't dwell on them, assuming them to be eczema.

  
          "Well, I hope it looked as cool as it hurt," Peter quipped, pressing his sweatshirt to his knee again with a frown.

  
          "I'd give it a solid 7.9, would've been way cooler if you broke a bone or something."

  
     The stranger's nonchalance irks Peter just a bit, and he hopes to god 'Mr. Scarf Man' (appropriately named by Peter) didn't notice the nineteen-year-old stiffen at his words, but Peter was never that lucky when it came to social situations.

  
            "Oh shit! Sorry!-- Should've read the room, I'm a little idiotic at times .. _especially_ when it comes to 'comedy.' People say I'm a little insen--," 'Mr. Scarf Man' stops short, becoming aware of his rambling. Shaking his head, he holds out a gloved hand to Peter, a small smile on his face.

  
            "I'm an idiot named Wade, enchanté monsieur. . ?" Wade says curtly and questionable, his accent off by a mile but still passable.

  
           "Peter. Monsieur Peter."

  
     Peter hates his sheepish response and the way his cheeks run red with embarrassment, hoping Wade can't see the crimson color in the dim light. Nevertheless, the two shake hands, and Peter tries to ignore the searing heat in his palms and cheeks at the gloved contact.

  
    Wade steps back, obnoxiously sucking on his slurpee straw as his eyes scan over Peter curiously (Peter squirms only slightly).

             "Do you have somewhere you need to be?" Wade asks, a smirk returning to his lips.

  
             "Nah, bleeding out on filthy asphalt just so happens to be my favorite pastime ."

 

             "Didn't take you for the type of guy who likes to get dirty."

 

             "And where'd you get that idea? You barely know me."

 

             "Yeah, but I can definitely _get_ to know you,” Wade quirks an eyebrow at Peter, “if you let me, of course."

 

     The color of Peter's cheeks match his bloodied knees, and Wade can't quit smiling that smug smile.

              "Anyways, I'm sure you have a worried mother out there somewhere," Wade continues, reaching towards Peter's Schwinn cruiser, "who’s probably sitting on her hands waiting for her beautiful little boy to miraculously show up ."

 

              "I'm not little, I-I'm _nineteen_!"

 

      Wade waves his hand at the college student dismissively, leaning Peter's beat up bike on his hip. Peter doesn't feel the need to tell Wade he doesn't have a mother, I mean, he’s only just met the guy, and the circumstances were less than ideal. 

             "No need to get into the details-- what's your plan of action here Petey?" Wade asks mockingly, adjusting the skewed basket and throwing his empty slurpee into it.   
  
             "Nothing," Peter huffs, "I have no cash, no cell service, and I'm pretty much bleeding out."

 

             "Quit being dramatic," Wade, rolls his eyes at Peter, "Pick up your dorky briefcase and your books, there's a station a couple streets down. Where'd you need to go?"

 

     The tall man starts walking off with Peters bike, not waiting for the college student to hurriedly stuff his water bottle, bloody sweater, and books into his 'dorky' bookbag. Peter slings it haphazardly across himself, knees aching as he jogs to catch up to Wade.

             "Uhh .. Morningside heights, in Manhattan--by the college?" Peter also didn't feel like telling Wade he studies at Columbia, once again, reminded that the pair were in fact strangers. Luckily for Peter, Wade didn't pry and continued to escort him to the 7 train station.

             "I don't have any money," Peter repeats quietly as they near the station, digging through his book bag in search of loose change.

    Wade slaps a five dollar bill, and a couple of crumpled up ones into Peter's hand.

             "And now you do."

 

             "Wade I- I can't take this - "

             

            "Shut up Petey, it's nothing. If I didn't want you to have it, I wouldn't have offered," The towering man hands Peter his Schwinn, Peter reluctantly wrapping his hands around the handlebars.

            "Now get home safe not-little-petey , and watch out for curbs."

  
     And with that, Wade turns on his heel and stalks off, leaving Peter as dazed and confused as he was on that curb no less than 10 minutes earlier, now with 8$ in hand and an empty slurpee cup. 

     Shoving the cash in his jean pocket, Peter carefully wheels his bike down the subway station steps, blocking out thoughts of the tall, brawny man as he sluggishly made his way to ticketing. Nearly avoiding a collision with an immaculately dressed man who practically radiated stress, Peter makes it to the dingy machine without another embarrassing accident.

  
     The college student opts for three single ride passes, knowing he'd have to use the other two vouchers in the near future. Peter neatly folds the dollar he has left, about to slip the banknote into his scuffed book bag, when black ink on the crease of the bill catches his eye. Peter unfolds it carefully, smiling at the words scrawled in big bold letters on the one dollar bill:

 

**_WADE WILSON  ;)_**

**_719 266 2837_ **

**_FUCK TRUMP!_ **

 

He can't help but smile.


	2. he speaks of senseless things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emre’s a bit of an alcoholic (peter's just given up at this point)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys ! glad some of you enjoyed the first chapter, your kudos and comments honestly made my day ! anyways , here's the 2nd chap, hope to keep this updated consistently. 
> 
> song recs  
> hiding to night - alex turner  
> aladdin sane - david bowie

       A little under a week had passed since what Peter and his dorm-mate, Emre,have deemed the 'Mr. Scarf Man' incident. Peter insisted the comedic nickname sounded as if Wade were some notorious strangler on one of the many cheesy cops shows his roomie worshipped, but Emre found it endearing, and Peter could not argue with the stubborn, blonde boy. 

 

"So was he _cute_?" Emre asks slyly, throwing himself onto Peter's day bed (nearly landing on his own laptop) and staring at him deviously. The blonde continually meddled into Peter's social life, not caring if the issue concerned him or not. Peter figured that was something to expect when it came to roommates, or maybe it was just his particular roomie who was so nosy.

"We've gone over this at least twenty dozen times in the past three days; I couldn't see him! It was too dark. . ." 

Emre was seemingly obsessed with the helpful and possibly handsome stranger Peter had offhandedly mentioned upon returning to their conjoined dorm rooms late Saturday night. Five days later, and Peter still hadn't worked up the nerve to call or text Wade. In an attempt to encourage Peter, Emre had pinned the single dollar bill to the brunet’s wall, the banknote looking out of place alongside the many film posters and art prints that covered Peter’s dorm room.

 

"You should just text him," Emre huffed, lazily pointing to the slightly crumbled dollar, before returning to his report on the artistic brilliance of the deceased Stanley Kubrick. Peter was about to protest, but the film major could sense his oncoming tangent, and quickly added, "It's not _that_ hard, Peter. Just thank him for the cash or something, keep it casual."

 

     Peter sighs heavily, ignoring his somewhat invasive roommate and swiveling his desk chair to face his own paper for the same cursed English seminar.He was nearly finished with it, effortlessly going into detail about the intricacy of Anthony Burgess's didactic and moralistic novella, A Clockwork Orange. As Peter perfects his grammar and word choice, the English major begins to wish texting Wade was as easy as writing a report was. Peter knew, for the most part, that he was the only one stopping himself from texting Wade (Emre couldn't have been more encouraging), but he couldn't help but think he may come off as awkward and desperate.

 

"Gimme your phone," Emre suddenly demanded, his tone halfhearted.

 

" _What_?"

 

"Your phone? I can practically hear you worrying from here."

 

"Wha- no, I-"

 

"Phone. _Now_. Or you're buying dinner," Emre says sternly, expectantly holding out his hand. Peter's broke as it is, and knowing Emre, he'd probably beg for a 12$ poké bowl, a cuisine the college student simply couldn't afford.Reluctantly, Peter relinquishes his phone to the overeager blonde, watching with worried eyes as Emre furiously taps away at his cracked iPhone 6.  His roommate’s mischievous gaze did nothing to allay Peter’s growing doubts. 

 

"Don't say anything dumb-- _please_!"

 

"Got it, Pete," Emre responds dismissively.

 

"Or overbearing- Or corny! and uh . ."

"Shhh, I got this; I'm in the zone. "

 

" . . Or explicit."

 

"Too late!" Emre smirks, giggling evilly and handing the phone back to Peter. The English major's eyes widen in horror, looking unbelievingly at his so-called friend.

 

"Of course I didn't, stupid! I wouldn't ruin my friends only chance at _love_!" Emre sing songs, a shit-eating grin flashing across his thin face. Peter rolls his eyes at the blonde boy for the fifth time that evening.

 

"Anyways, I'm pretty proud of it. Think I should've taken that poetry seminar with Ned after all... " Emre trails off, turning back to his work. Paying no mind to the film major’s artistic endeavors,  Peter looks down at his phone nervously, eyes scanning over the two sentence text message. 

 

**_heyy_** _**wade**_ , **_it's_** _**peter**_! **_just_** **_wanted_** **_2_** **_thank_** _**u**_ **_again_** _**4**_ **_saving_** **_my_** **_ass_** **_on_** **_saturday_** _**xx**_

 

Peter groans as he sits down on his unmade bed, reading and rereading the short text at least a dozen times.

 

"And now we wait . . ." The English major mumbles to himself, throwing his phone at his pillow, feeling defeated.

 

"No, we don't!" Emre announces triumphantly, jumping up and off Peter's day bed, "We're gonna go to the stacks and get fucked up on fun juice!" 

" _Why_ do you call it fun juice?"

 

"Alcohol feels too .. I dunno, heavy? _Adult_ - _ey_? "

 

"As it should ..."

 

"Oh my god! Stop being such a party pooper, Parker!" Emre cries out, throwing his arms up in exasperation, "And just because I ignore your stash of stress cigarettes doesn't mean they're not there." Peter stiffens at Emre's accusation, mostly because it was in fact true.

 

"We all have our bad habits," Emre continues, tone matter-of-fact, "Mine just happens to be _way_ more fun than yours!"

 

"At least mine's _legal_!"

 

Emre shoots Peter a quick glare, walking towards the door and grabbing his winter coat from the makeshift rack the two had assembled last semester. Directly under the plastic rack, a large box labeled **_'EMRE'S_** **_GOODS_** ' sat, containing Emre's most prized possessions, which consisted mostly of alcohol and old comic books. The blonde shuffles through the cardboard box, tossing two sweaters and various papers onto the dormitory floor before grabbing a large bottle of red wine.

 

"May I interest you in cheap corner store wine?" Emre asks in a botched French accent, quirking an eyebrow at a frowning Peter.The brunet merely shrugs, as if to say ' _Fuck_ _it_ ,' before nodding reluctantly and reaching for his own heavy coat.

 

"Success!" Emre gleefully yells, turning towards the door, "To the stacks!" And with that, the pair are running out of their first-year dormitory, across the south lawn, and into the historic Butler Library.The two are panting as they step into the cramped elevator made to go to and from the stacks, both doubled over trying to catch a breath.

 

"P-press eight . . ." Emre shakily breathes out, waving his hand at Peter half-heartedly.The brunet manages to compose himself just enough to hit the little, round button. With a sharp jolt, the aged elevator begins its descent into the lower levels of the 80-year-old Butler Library.  

 

The stacks are eerily quiet when the two finally step off the confined elevator and onto the eighth level of the famed underground library. They silently walk to the classics section, a corner towards the back of the stacks void of any security cameras. Emre slumps to the tiled floor, his back pressed against the metal bookcases. The blonde's cheeks are still flushed from their desperate sprint, a dazed smile on his tired face. Peter softly laughs at him, sitting criss-cross on the floor across from Emre. The English major watches in bemusement as his roomie pulls the 'fun juice' from his inner coat pocket, looking at the bottle quizzically.

 

"Don't we need a corkscrew?" Peter asks. 

 

"Nope!" Emre says cheerily, "It's a screw off!" With one quick movement by an experienced hand, the bottle of cheap chateau is open, the tangy scent wafting through the already stuffy air. Emre tips his head back, drinking straight from the bottle.

 

"How classy," Peter deadpans, nose crinkling in faux disgust . 

 

"Oh, you _love_ me!" Emre exclaims, spilling a splash of red wine on the floor as he throws his hands up.

 

"You're bearable," Peter responds smugly, a smile tugging at his lips, looking fondly at his slightly alcoholic friend.

Ignoring Peter's snarky response, Emre holds the chateau high above his head, clearing his throat dramatically.

 

"To Wade Wilson!" Emre toasts rather loudly, voice echoing through the empty library, and making Peter wince.

"Emre!"

 

"-The best maybe-boyfriend Peter will ever have."

 

 

 

 


	3. nicotine's famous honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wade's got a thing for pretty pink lips and fancy french ciggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i don't really like how i wrote wade's character this chap? he's a bit 2 timide, but i guess i'd expect him to be like that around someone he genuinely likes. anyways ! things sorta heat up, not by a lot, but y'know gotta keep it consistent 
> 
> song recs:
> 
> sit down i think i love you - buffalo springfield  
> can't nobody love you - the zombies  
> tony stark - the symposium

 

( ) = yellow box

[ ] = white box

  
    Many things threatened to put an end to Wade Wilson's far from conventional life, _most_ of them of the human species.

    But the gravest danger to Wade's existence was Peter-motherfucking-last name, the freckle-faced boy Wade had run into only five days prior, directly after beating the living shit out of a murderous bodega owner, blood still on his boots.

         [Dude fucking deserved it too. .]

 

         (Yea! He strangled his victims with their own shoelaces, fucking shoelaces! how neat is that?)

 

         [You mean _sick?_ ]

 

        (I said what I said. Just imagine! Killing your victim with something they depend on each and every day must be such a mind f- )

 

        [Shut up! he's thinking about Petey.]  
  
    How could Wade not think about Peter? The pretty little nineteen-year-old clad in jeans and a turtleneck stole the merc's heart in under ten minutes, all shy smiles and light laughs. But what really sent Wade over the edge, was how easily Peter bantered with the merc, not missing a beat. Wade could've kissed him right then and there, but thought better of it, considering the apparent age difference and circumstances.

    So here Wade was, walking through the Museum of Modern Art thinking about the curvature of Peter's pouted lips.

        [Not creepy at all . . ]

 

        (Aww but he's _so_ cute! Just imagine those pretty, pink lips wrapped aro- )  
  
        "Shut up!" Wade mumbles sharply, cutting off Yellow. Wade just so happened to be 'on the job,' quietly strolling through the fourth floor of the MoMA in search of a bearded, burly man named Lucien Price, a prominent figure in the underground world of art theft. After crossing one of his clients, Wade was paid to merely threaten the monopolizing thief (and slightly terrify him).

    Wade strides past various abstract pieces by Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg before stumbling upon a large Andy Warhol painting that took up an entire wall of the six-floor museum. It was an almost exact replica of Leonardo da Vinci's famed piece "The Last Supper," except the painting resembled that of a sketch, artistically defaced by well-known brand logos. The merc sat and pondered the statement piece for a couple of seconds before seeing a heavy man walk into the white, high ceilinged room; Lucien Price. He walked in slowly, nose turned up, lips pressed together in a firm line, eyes cold and void of emotion, his overall demeanor supercilious. Lucien stopped in front of a slightly smaller painting on the wall adjacent to Andy Warhol's piece, studying it carefully.

   Subconsciously, Wade pulls his black beanie further down and tugs at the hem of his sweater. Wade calmly waltzes over to Lucien, standing a foot or two away from the thief.

     "Beautiful piece, isn't it?" Wade asks the stranger, voice placid. The merc can feel Lucien's questioning gaze and tries hard to ignore it. Wade didn't find the work of art beautiful, in fact, he wasn't sure he'd even consider it art, But what is and what isn't art was subjective, and the merc would never quite understand it.

      "Indeed. The artist's use of cross-hatching here really adds texture to the piece," Lucien replies cooly, pointing at the top right corner of the canvas.

       (Is this art talk? Is this what these pretentious pricks really talk about? _Fucking brush strokes?_ )

 

       [Not sure, don't think the author knows either]

 

       (Oh but she would! She's an art student, remember?)

 

       [Yea but like, for journalism?]

  
  Wade nods his head pointedly, pretending he knew what the art dealer was talking about. Wade quickly looked around the room as he stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, searching around for the small pocket knife he brought along.

      (Why no bullets?)

       [For once, I agree. Knives are lame.]

  This was one of the few hits Wade wanted to be nonchalant about. Usually, he didn't care about the possible security present or innocent bystanders, but today Wade didn't feel like dealing with the repercussions; he had laundry to do.

       (And Peter.)

   Lucien is still droning on about the painting's eloquence as Wade moves closer to the art dealers side. "And the lightning, it immediately draws your attention; very dramatic," Lucien notes, a gleam of something resembling pride in his eyes.

     "About as dramatic and immediate as the click of a switchblade knife," Wade recites quietly, smirking silently as he presses his army knife into Lucien's side, firm enough to tear the fabric of his peacoat and leave a slight cut, but not enough to actually puncture the skin, though he could with one quick movement.

  The dealer stiffens, "Last Exit to Brooklyn, is it? A remarkable novel". His tone is calm and collected, voice unwavering as Wade towers over him. The merc presses the blade further into the stout man's side, hoping to get a reaction out of him.

      (Who the hell has read Last Exit to Brooklyn? I mean, except for us.)

      [Fuck if I know.]

   "Man! If you didn't kill your client's buddy, we would've been good friends," Wade jests.

 

   "How do you know about that?" Lucien asks urgently, composed façade crumbling as he trembles beneath Wade's blade.

 

   "Doesn't matter. Just don't fuck with Winscott again, okay?" Wade answers cooly, mocking Lucien's tone. The merc steps away from him, clicking his switchblade closed and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.

    " . . .Or next time you won't be so lucky."

        [So fucking cliche.]

       (The big man's running out of lines.)

    "Anyways!", Wade exclaims, slapping a friendly hand on Lucien's shoulder, "You got that?". The thief nods hurriedly, assuring Wade that they'd have no further problems.

   "Great! I'll leave you to your . . . brush strokes," Wade mutters, turning away from Lucien and walking out of the white room and into a long corridor leading to a pair of escalators.

   The merc was in the middle of crossing the MoMA's famed sculpture garden when his pocket vibrated. Wade fully expected it to be another job offering from Weasel, about to happily decline, but what he got was entirely better:

        **heyy wade, it's peter! just wanted 2 thank u again 4 saving my ass on saturday xx**

  Wade almost falls into one of those cursed infinity ponds.

  
**\--**

 

  The merc did, in fact, have to do laundry. Most of his clothes were stained in blood, salsa, or something of the like--

      (Jizz.)

\--and he had decided it was time to do something about them. Even it was nearing midnight.

      [Thank god for 24-hour laundromats; We smell like a Quentin Tarantino film.]

   Wade kicks the laundromat door open, his scarred hands preoccupied with holding his flimsy hamper and a caddy filled with detergent, lemon juice, seltzer water, a lighter, and of course, a pack of those fancy, French cigarettes he liked so much. The smell of fabric softener and bleach greets him instantaneously, the familiarity of the atmosphere almost soothing. The low humming of dryers running is the only sound filling the nearly vacant laundromat, apart from the quiet conversations of a scattered few people. Wade's worn out combat boots squeak unpleasantly against the tile floor as he passes row upon row of washers and dryers lined up on the beige walls.

   The merc is just setting his stuff down on a washing machine when he hears a familiar, disgruntled voice cry out behind him.

       "It won't come out!"

   The merc turns around rather quickly, nearly losing his balance, to see a brunette vigorously using a tide-pen on a blood-stained sweater, a signature pout on his freckled face.

          _Peter-motherfucking-last name._

         [Oh shit.]

         (Oh shit!)

   But something was ruining the pretty little picture that was Peter; A lean, blonde man clad in baggy overalls looking to be about Peter's age sitting atop a dryer, giggling at the brunette's desperate attempts to rid of the stain. Wade felt a pang of unjustified jealously in his chest and without thought, strode over to Peter, laundry caddy in hand.

    "Lemon juice and seltzer water for blood," Wade says cooly, reciting the words of the all-knowing and motherly Blind Al.

    "Wade!" Peter exclaims happily, his bloody sweatshirt forgotten about, "Oh my god, Emre! Emre! _This is Wade!_ " Peter points at Wade childishly, index finger mere inches away from the older man's face.

    "I can see that Peter," Emre says softly, smiling at Peter fondly, before looking up at Wade, "Sorry. He's a bit of a lightweight, and _very_ mad at you, remember Peter?" Emre's tone is playful but bothers Wade nevertheless.

        [He got Peter drunk?]

        (Shiv him! Shiv him!)

        [Not here, at least not in front of Petey.]

        (Shit you're right. . . maybe later.)

    "Yeah!" Peter pouts, crossing his arms over his chest, "You never texted me back!" The merc suddenly feels very, very guilty as he looks down at the frowning brunet.  
  
  Wade sighs, scratching the back of his neck, "I'm about to be really honest with you here, Petey."

    "M'kay"

     "I think I wrote at least 300 separate texts to send you and I didn't think any of 'em were good enough for your cute butt... so I just-- didn't send anything." It's not entirely a lie, Wade did make at least 10 drafts, before he convinced himself he wouldn't get a reply anyways as well as a knee to the stomach (but that's another story altogether).

    "You're such a dork!" Peter slurs, "And a total liar, but it's fine! You're here now which is pretty cool."

    "Yeah . . . It is," Wade breathes, gaze flickering up to Emre, before looking back down at Peter.

    "Anyways," Wade continues, " I- uh, thought you were nineteen? Didn't know the drinking age changed. I mean, not liked it stoped me or anythi-" Peter laughs way harder than he should've at the merc's dumb remark before he hurriedly shushes Wade, exclaiming, "You have to be quiet! It's illegal!"

   After playfully scolding the two teens, The merc helps Peter rid of the blood stain on his tattered Columbia sweater using Blind Al's remedy. Peter tends to the rest of his laundry, stuffing the jumbled mess of soggy jeans, sweatpants, and baggy tees into the industrial dryer underneath Emre.

    "You go here?" Wade asks casually, pointing to the Columbia emblem on the pale-gray fabric.

    "Oh uh, yea! Emre and I share a dorm room," Peter says cheerily, glancing back at his blonde friend who was unaware of the conversation, sending another wave of unwarranted jealousy through Wade's body. The merc nods his head curtly, scrubbing away at the slowly dissipating stain.

    "Which reminds me," Emre juts in, stowing his phone in his overall pocket and hopping off the dryer, "I still have that paper to finish."  
The blonde looks at Peter wearily, "Do you mind if I head back? D'you have money for the train?"

     "Yup! I'll be fine, " Peter happily slurs, "Plus I got Wade! So there's no need to worry."

     "Alright, Just- Don't be dumb. I'll see ya later.. ," Emre smiles at Peter, then at the merc, and leaves the laundromat with a small wave.

            [What kind of person leaves their intoxicated friend alone with a complete stranger? At midnight?]

 

            (Since when did you become responsible?)

 

            [Since this nineteen-year-old practically fell into our lap. .]

 

            (Ugh, I wish!)

    Peter hopped up on the running dryer, taking Emre's place, and staring at Wade quizzically.

       "How'd you know how to get rid of blood stains?" Wade stills at Peter's question, hoping the drunken teen doesn't notice his hesitation.

       "Oh uh... used to be in the military," Wade smiles softly before exclaiming, "Canadian special forces baby! "

            [Not entirely a lie.]

            (He'll find out one way or another.)

       "You're _Canadian_?" Peter asks in disbelief, brown and dilated eyes wide, "That explains why you're so nice!"

   Wade gasps, putting a scarred hand to his equally scarred chest, faking offense.

       "Peter! How _dare_ you stereotype me!" The merc jests, "If I really wanted to, I would've taken you for a twink and called it a day."

            [Too far!]  
  
   But Peter, seemingly unfazed by its suggestiveness, lets out the prettiest laugh at Wade's joke, making the merc's heart flutter in a sickeningly sweet way.

       "Anyways, I should probably take these out soon," Peter mumbles, slapping a hand on the dryer as he slides off, ready to open the circular door, "Don't wanna over-dry anything."

      "What? You can't break the cycle!"

 

       "Huh?"

 

       "There's no such thing as over-drying; you can't break the machine's cycle!"

 

        "I don't want charred jeans Wade . ."

 

         "And you won't have 'em! Laundry's like death. If you for some reason, _and I hope to god you don't_ , drop dead right now, and I shoot you, you're not gonna die again. You're already dead."

   Wade pauses, before reciting " You can't over-die, you can't over-dry."

   Peter is silent for a moment, before a flash of recognition crosses his face, "Seinfeld? _Really_?". Ignoring Wade's (and Jerry Seinfeld's) enlightening advice, Peter swiftly opens the little glass door, dumping his freshly cleaned clothes on top of the dryer next to a navy blue laundry bag.

  Wade continued to mess with Peter as the younger man neatly folded his clothes into his laundry bag, the brunet entertained by Wade's risqué humor. Throughout the entirety of his conversation with Peter, The merc tirelessly worked at getting the crimson-colored stain out of the college student's sweatshirt, ignoring his own laundry. Finally, after several different scrubbing techniques, the smear was out.

        "Success!" Wade cheers triumphantly, smiling down at the blot-free pale-grey fabric.  
  
        "You just saved my ass!" Peter remarks graciously, "for the second fucking time!" The brunet hastily grabs his sweatshirt, thanking Wade, and pulls it over his head, leaving his brunet hair a curly mess.

  Wade gasps again, "Peter curses?"

       "I'm nineteen Wade! I'm allowed to swear," And then Peter pouts his pretty pink lips again, and Wade thinks he feels his knees shake.

              (He's gonna be the thing that kills us.)

       "Nuh-uh! Not in my household."

  Peter smiles at Wade fondly, grabbing his laundry bag, before once again returning to face the merc.

       "Thank you again," The college student adds, slurring his words, "I appreciate it . .. more than you know really."

       "Of course, I mean I- It's not like you needed it or... "

  Peter presses a soft hand to the merc's arm, reassuringly. "Shut up, Wade. I definitely did." The light touch alone sends Wade's senses into overdrive and the merc takes a second to soak in Peter's features, freckled-face flushed, deep brown eyes dilated, pink lips curved into a small smile, and button-nose slightly red from drinking.

             (God. Fucking. Damnit)

      "Anytime" Wade breathes, voice far more strained then he would've liked.

 Peter's eyes linger on the merc's scarred face, an oddly content look in his eyes before the brunet seemingly remembers something.

      "Cool, Well I - uh should head back to campus . ." Peter mumbles, looking toward the door.

      "Here, I'll uh, walk you to subway?" Wade offers, throwing his sweater-saving seltzer water and lemon juice into his caddy and swiftly grabbing his untouched laundry.

      "For sure . ." Peter replies, a tired smile crossing his face, "Think I may just grab a cab though... "

   The pair step out of the small laundromat and into the cold New York night, trailing down the sidewalk side by side. Peter stops to order an Uber (too tired to wait for a cab) as Wade fumbles with his caddy, pulling out his pack of Gitanes' cigarettes.

      "D'you mind if I smoke?" the merc asks, already reaching for his accompanying lighter.

       "Sure uh," Peter pauses hesitantly before asking "Do you mind if I have one?"

       " _You smoke?_ "

           (Our baby boy is corrupt!)

           [He's not ours . . ]

       "Yeah, sometimes" Peter shrugs casually, smirk returning to the brunet's face, "What, I can't smoke either?"

   Wade doesn't protest and hands the college student a gitanes.

       "O' course you can baby boy," The merc says softly, letting the pet name slip without thinking. Wade expects Peter to be weirded out by Wade's endearing tone, but to his surprise, it seems to relax the brunet, his shoulder's sinking slightly. The cigarette sits loosely between Peter's lips, his brown eyes looking expectantly at Wade.

          (We definitely shouldn't be so turned on by this)

   As the merc light's Peter's cigarette, Wade can't help but mumble, "You're full of surprises today Petey." The Canadian takes a second to light up his own cigarette, inhaling rather sharply and letting the cancerous smoke swirl around his head.

       "First cussing, then alcohol and now, _my god,_ smoking?" Wade muses as he stares down at the college student, "Color me impressed."

Peter smiles through smoke, stepping closer to Wade as he holds the gitanes between his index and middle finger, letting it burn off at his side.

        "I don't usually drink, I was just pretty upset you didn't text back, which is dumb but . ." The brunet trails off, taking another drag on his cigarette before tossing it to the sidewalk and crushing it under his beat up converse.

            (Hot.)

        "Yeah, I just... didn't know what to say, or send - "

 

       "Really? You could've sent anything literally, and I'd still be happy about it."

 

        "Even a dick pic?"

   Peter snorts, hand flying over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the unexplainably cute sound, small frame shaking uncontrollably with drunken laughter. The college student seems to inch nearer to Wade, the pair close enough to share smoke-smelling breath. The brunet looks up at the merc through dark eyelashes, face unreadable in the small, unlit street as he leans into him , tilting his head slightly. He smells like peppermint, Wade realizes; Peter smells like peppermint and ash, and it's his new favorite scent. The merc's heart beats unbearably fast as Peter's frecked-face comes up to his own, and when he feel's the brunet's soft, pink lips _barely_ graze against his chapped ones, it sends a wave of pleasant sparks throughout his body, heart clenching in a sickening anticipation. He wanted more, he _needed_ more. Wade slowly moves his arms to envelope around the smaller boy, desperately trying to pull him closer, trying to close the lingering gap -

              **_HONK!_**

  The pair jump apart in an instant, both men flushed a bright red as the impatient uber driver makes his presence known.

       "I - uh, I gotta go, he'll charge me extra If I don't g- " The brunet tries to explain, obviously flustered.

       "See you around, baby boy," Wade replies, tone nonchalant as he waves the brunet off.

 Peter, once again, seems to calm at the pet name, flashing Wade a quick smile before awkwardly shuffling into the back of the small sedan.

            [We're _so_ fucked.]

           (So fucked.)


	4. devil's daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wade's reminded that peter, despite apparent maturity, is still most certainly a horny teenager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some random clarifications:
> 
> \- wade is 6 years older than peter, making him 25. 
> 
> \- wade does have scars and usaully wears one of those cheap, blue medical masks that goes over the mouth and nose along with a scarf to hide em. (feautred in this chapp)
> 
> \- peter's a virgin fyi
> 
> \- idk about smut yet we'll c
> 
> song recs:
> 
> your teeth in my neck - kali uchis  
> brakelights - omar apollo  
> nice to see you - vansire & floor cry

     "Don't call me _stu-pid!_ " Wade 'sings' as he walks into his dingy, downtown apartment, groceries in hand, "that ain't the way my name _pro-nounced!_ "

 The merc haphazardly dances around the compact space, hollering the rest of the verse, "Don't call me cu-pid!- _I got too many hoes right now!_ "

           [We only have one 'hoe.']

 

           (And Petey's definitely not a hoe . .)

 

           [Neither is he ours . ]

 The boxes go silence for a lovely couple of seconds, and Wade takes the time to begin unpacking groceries, consisting mostly of taco mix and ice cream, as he horribly mutilates the rest of the rap song.

     "Pool-side in Houston, - tryna see if Beyonce will take me for adoption!"

          [He doesn't really like you. Why would he? What makes you think he wants anything to do with us?]

 

         (He's manipulating us, playing with us. And when he's bored he'll just leave like the rest, I guess. )

 

          [ _You guess?_ I guarantee it. No one that pretty willingly spends time with our fugly m-]

   "Blah, blah, blah- I'm the fucking worst, I got it assholes!" Wade retorts, humming softly as he chucks a box of 'super spicy' taco mix into his cupboard, adamant on savoring his fleeting moments of happiness.

 He and Peter hadn't even kissed, lips barely grazing, but somehow, Wade found the shared moment promising. He felt weirdly hopeful.

         (Already he's getting all sappy, and it's only been a day. .)

 

         [This is not going to end well. The author is going to ma-]

 

        (No spoilers! Especially false ones.)

   "It's too early for this shit, Wade," An elderly voice croaks behind the merc, "And your voice is a fucking abomination; I'm already blind, don't need to lose my hearing too."

   " _Aww_ , Al! - Don't flatter me." Blind Al, as Wade called her, stands behind the merc, sporting a dull orange sweatshirt and a pair of grey sweats, meek frame bent over a cup of cold tea.

 

  "Did you get the laundry done?" The old woman blatantly asks, slowly walking over to her worn-in, brown couch.

 

   "I-uh, got distracted!" Wade smiles fondly at the memory of the freckle-faced teen, pulling the thin, blue medical mask he was rarely seen without under his chin.

      (Also washing old lady clothes is weird. .)

  "That was the only condition, Wade!" Al chides as she sinks into the leather, feeling around for the TV remote, "All you had to do was the _laundry_! The fucking laundry! I should kick you out no-"

 

  "Don't you want to know _why_ I got distracted?" The merc interrupts, throwing a bag of chips at Al.

 

  "Not really, no- "

 

   "The cutest fucking kid, Al! I mean _totally_ hot too, definitely fuckable, but weirdly adorable, I could just _squeeze_ him! And he has freckles! _And his lips!_ \- oh my god... "

 

   "Wade. ."

 

   "And even better! He's _legal_. So we can totally get freaky as fuck an-"

 

   " _Shut up_ , Wade!"

 

The merc frowns at his blind friend, walking toward the couch, "Aren't you proud of me? I'm socializing beyond our little family unit. ."

   "Immensely" Al deadpans, "You'll finally have someone else to grace with your presence. "

 

  "I am a sweet treat!" The merc retorts, throwing himself on to the couch next to his soon to be ex-roommate, "I am a fucking delight to be around!"

 

       [Doubtful.]

 

 Al waves a hand at Wade dismissively, "We'll talk about your girl problems later, Where's the remote?"

 

\--

 

 Ned Leeds, Peter Parker's best friend of more than 8 years, wasn't nearly as nosy as his roommate Emre but was particularly interested in the English major's love life, insisting that Peter was in desperate need of girlfriend (or boyfriend).

    "You almost kissed?" Ned exclaims, looking up from his textbook with wide eyes.

    "Quiet! I don't wanna get kicked out again." Peter harshly whispers, glaring at Ned over his laptop. The librarian had an apparent vendetta against the freckle-faced teen and his many eccentric friends that graced the historical place, always finding a reason to throw them out of Butler Library. And he definitely wasn't hungover, and nursing a head-splitting headache, definitely not.

    "Give me the details!" Ned whisper-yells, eyes narrowing at his brunet friend, "What's her name?"

Peter silently winces at the poet's use of "her." The college student really didn't feel like explaining himself to Ned, at least not in his current, hypersensitive state.

    "Wade" The brunet mumbles hoarsely, massaging his temples slowly in an attempt to soothe the overwhelming pounding feeling.

 

   "Wade, huh?," Ned replies, not batting an eye at the 'pronoun change,' before smiling softly at Peter, "So what's he like?"

 

   "He's great."

 

   "That's it? Great."

 

   "Ned, I'm so tired man," Peter groans, body slumping in the uncomfortable wooden chair, "My head hurts when I talk."

 

   "How much did you guys drink anyway?" Ned chuckles, looking quizzically at his pained friend.

 

   "Not much," A familiar voice responds from behind Peter, slapping a slender hand on the English major's shoulder, "At least, not for me."

 

   "Emre! What's up, man?" Ned asks as the blonde slides into the chair next to Peter.

 Emre shrugs casually, a small smirk on his slender face, "Just looking after this lightweight." The brunet shoots a quick glare at his roommate.

   "You said we were gonna have a glass or two of wine, not a six-pack of beer," Peter pouts, pulling at the strings of his loosely-fitting, black hoodie.

 

   "Aww, but we had fun!", Emre patronizes, nudging Peter's side playfully," And you got to see Wa-ade!"

 

   "And you almost kissed him!" Ned adds, apparently backing Emre in this one-sided argument. Peter fights back a small smile as the two begin to bombard the brunet with questions.

 

   "Are you gonna call him?'

 

   "Yeah! Are you guys gonna go on a date?"

 

   "Too many sounds . ." Peter whimpers, putting his head in his hands before mumbling softly "I might just nap."

 

   "And miss out on your valuable education?" Emre teases as Peter packs up his laptop and books. The brunet absentmindedly waves his hand at his friend's protests, suddenly determined to get into his heated dorm room and under his comforters despite it being noon. 

 The teen mutters a goodbye and sluggishly strolls out of the high-ceilinged library, pulling his hood over his head as he steps outside, curly tufts of hair sticking out wildly. Peter ducks his chin into his hoodie, regretting his lack of layering as he walks across the snowy quad towards Carman hall.

 As he walks, Peter feels his phone vibrate against his pack of camel's. The teen considered this oversized sweatshirt to be his smoking hoodie, often hiding his 'stress cigarettes' in its pocket, and completely forgot about its purpose after slipping it on this morning. He reeked of smoke, but the smell comforted the freckle-faced boy to some extent.

 After adjusting the strap of his messenger bag, Peter pulls out his phone to see a chain of texts from none other than Wade Wilson.

 

 _hey sweet cheeks ;)_  
_i mean that abt ur face and butt btww_  
_whats up bby gurlll_

 

 Peter smiles underneath his hoodie, quickly typing out a response.

 

**hey wade! not up to much, gonna take a nap**

_can i join you ;)))_  
_jk jk_  
_anyways i gotta q 4 u_

**hmm what's up?**

_you free 2nite_

**uhh think so, why?**

_we're going on a date_

 

 Peter could virtually see Wade's dumb little smirk through the screen. 

 

**we are?**

_yknow it baby boy_  
_i'll c you at 7, where should i pick you up_

**how about the corner of W 114th St and Broadway? right by the bookstore**

_damn, i thought i was gonna have 2 persuade you_

**shh just accept your victory**

_okay okay_  
_well i'll c you soon <333_  
_i'll b counting down the seconds_

    **see you!**

 

 Peter smiles fondly at his phone as he walks into his first-year hall. He was going on a date with Wade Wilson.

    Tonight.

 A nap at this point was a necessity for the hungover college student. And so nap he did. After stepping into his comfortably warm dorm, Peter hastily hobbled out of his shoes and practically dove into his full bed, not caring to pull off his ash-ridden hoodie. Soon enough, the brunet was consumed entirely by sleep, getting some well-deserved shut-eye.

 

 

\- -

 

 

  "See! I told you," Al playfully scolds, "All you had to do was text the kid. He obviously likes you."

 

 Wade chews on his fingernail nervously, reading and rereading the little conversation he and Peter had had.

  "D'you think I was a little too. . ." The merc pauses, "forward?"

 

  "Since when have you been concerned about being 'too forward'"? Al scoffs, adjusting her dark sunglasses slightly.

 

 Wade doesn't respond and instead continues brooding over Peter, his hopeful happiness abandoned.

  "Quit worrying," Al places a delicate hand on Wade's, "If he didn't wanna go why would he have said yes?"

 

  "Maybe he feels sorry for me."

 

  "Shut up, Wade," His roommate's tone becomes stern, "You're allowed to have happiness once in a while. Fucking enjoy it, the kid's a blessing."

 

 The merc relaxes slightly, merely nodding his head at the old woman's words.

 

  "Anyways," Al shuffles away from the merc, "You should shower. I'll clean up the apartment, just in case."

 

 Wade didn't protest, knowing that he would have to clean up the apartment himself because Al was, in fact, blind, something the old lady often seemed to forget.

 

\--

 

 Peter wakes up to the feeling of someone lightly shaking his shoulder.

   "Peter?" Emre asks softly, "Peter get up."

 The brunet slowly rubs his eyes, steadily propping himself up against his pillows.

   "What?" Peter rasps, running his hands down his face.

   "It's 6:30. You missed class."

 There's a beat of silence before Peter's jumping out of bed, nearly tripping over his comforter, and bolting for the bathroom.

   "I have a date!" The teen yelps, slamming the bathroom door closed and swiftly pulling off his hoodie.

   "A date?!" Emre's muffled voice calls from behind the door, "With Wade?"

   "Yeah!", Peter yells back, hastily turning on the shower, " _In 30 minutes!_ " The teen can hear his friend cackle through the door. Peter is graced with a few seconds of silence as he peels off his sweatpants and boxers, ready to step into the lukewarm shower.

  "Can I pick out your outfit!?" Emre excitedly asks. Peter, possibly too flustered to think, yells back a strained "yes" before slipping into the shower.

 The freckle-faced teen gets ready in record time. With the help of his ever-crafty friend Emre, Peter's out the door at around 6: 56. Clad in a pair of blue jeans, a purple turtleneck, a heavy coat, and a black beanie to hide his mess of hair, Peter's sprinting towards the 114th St exit with Emre at his side.

 The two stop in front of the college bookstore at 7:01, and Emre begins giving the teen a quick pep talk, one that Peter didn't know he needed.

  "Listen, just be yourself, man," The blonde concludes softly, "I know it's cliche as shit but just like, _y'know_."

  "You're great at this," Peter deadpans, voice shaky. Not only was the college student out of breath, but he was also incredibly nervous. A date felt more weighted than any of Wade and Peter's past interactions, and it slightly terrified the brunet. The teen didn't have time to brood over the matter, though, because Wade was pulling up to the curb in an old Ford squire before he could give it any more thought.

  "Sick car . ." Emre mumbles, nudging Peter forward, "Good luck! Be safe."

 

\--

 

 The blonde boy practically shoved Peter into Wade's 'borrowed' car, wishing him a quick 'good luck' as the teen slid into the leather passenger seat, the door shutting loudly behind him.

  "Hey, baby boy," Wade coos as Peter settles, voice muffled by his medical mask.

  "Hey," The brunet breathes, pretty pink lips curving into a charming smile, freckled cheeks bitten a rosy red by the January cold.

    (Urggh.)

  "You look cute," Wade blurts, and the teen's cheeks somehow manage to turn a deeper shade of red.

  "T-thanks," Peter says softly, "So, uh- what's the plan?"

  "Oh, shit!- right. It's a date, okay," Wade quickly pulls off the curb and turns down on to Broadway, "I was thinking a movie then pizza? But it's up to you."

  "Nah, I like it. Very classic," Peter muses, a soft look in his eyes, "What movie?"

    (The one about us! The sequel!)

    [Don't forget this is an AU. That's about the way cooler Wade.]

  "I was thinking Space Odyssey, it's always playing at this theatre near my apartment." The teen hums in agreement, slumping further into the leather seat. And so, the pair speed off towards the East Village in pursuit of Kubrick's famed sci-fi flick.

 After parking 'his' Ford squire near his shared apartment, Wade and Peter briskly walked to 'Village East Cinema,' hastily buying tickets for 2001: A Space Odyssey. While both Wade and Peter adored the mind fuck of a film, they had spent the majority of Kubrick's masterpiece not-so silently talking to each other, much to the dismay of fellow movie-goers. Peter simply couldn't help but giggle at the merc's bawdy humor, and Wade didn't want to stop making the teen laugh, finding the sound ethereal.

  "I feel like an asshole . ." Peter silently confesses as the two leave the theatre, the brunets slender arm interlocking with Wade's as they step out onto the sidewalk.

  "Don't," The merc says, tone unconcerned, as they pace down the pavement, side by side.

  "I know, but I hate it when people talk during movies," Peter mumbles, bottom lip jutting out in a pout, "Especially good ones! That makes me a hypocrite."

  "So then why did you?"

 

  "I- I , it's your fault! You made me."

 

  "I didn't make you do anything baby boy."

 Peter huffs defeatedly, shooting a playful glare at the merc, as he laces his thin fingers through Wade's.

    (Eeek!)

    [ . . . ]

 There were many things Wade Wilson wanted to say, or do, to Peter Parker at this moment. The merc wanted to shove him against the nearest wall and kiss his pretty pink lips senseless, wanted to praise each and everything about the freckle-faced boy, wanted to drop to his knees and worship the ground Peter walked on. But the merc said, nor did any of those things.

  "You still up for pizza?" Wade instead asks lamely, squeezing Peter's hand as he pulls the pair to a stop.

 The teen hums absentmindedly, nudging his head into Wade's chest, "I'm a lil' tired though."

  "Aww, is it past Petey's bedtime?" Wade lightly teases, massaging small circles into the back of the brunet's hand with his thumb. The merc can feel Peter smile against his chest, causing Wade's heart to flutter uncontrollably.

    ( _God_ , he's so cute.)

  "It's just down the street," The older man mumbles, "Think you can make it?" The teen purrs, _fucking_ purrs, before sneakily pressing a kiss to the merc's masked cheek. He continues down the sidewalk, leaving Wade in stunned silence.

  "Hurry up, old man!" Peter calls back to Wade, an infectious smile on his freckled face, as he joyously skips down the sidewalk, nearly bumping into an ancient newspaper stand. 

   [I don't like this. .]

   (Stop ruining the fun!)

 After a light-hearted argument over toppings, mainly concerning the grossness of olives and pineapples, the pair happily leave Wade's favorite pizzeria with a plain pie.

  "You need to expand your palate!" Wade argues as he and Peter step outside, the merc throwing his arms up in dramatic exasperation.

  "Too many conflicting flavors," Peter states, tone matter-of-fact, as he looks up at Wade with an aloof smile, "Plus, cheese hasn't hurt anybody, as far as I'm concerned." The college student holds the pizza box up to the merc as if to prove his point.

  "Forgetting about the lactose intolerant? " Wade asks, playfully eyeing the conflicted teen, "But that's beside the point, Where'd you wanna eat your sacred cheese?"

 Peter shrugs slightly, pink lips curved into a bashful smile, "Up to you."

  "We could eat it on my fire escape," Wade beams, "Like in the movies!"

 The teen giggles softly, fond look returning to his doe-eyes, "Sure, Wade."

 The walk to the merc's apartment is short and sweet, his building no less than three blocks away from the pizzeria. Wade is suddenly immensely glad he chose to clean as they near the old, brick property.

  "Just a quick warning," The merc says as he struggles to pull down the fire escape's rusting ladder, "My roommate's home, and she's very old and very blind."

  "What makes you think I'm coming inside?" Peter remarks, tone smug.

 Wade hums faintly as the ladder slides out of place with an unpleasant squeak, "Just have a feeling."

 Peter quirks a curious eyebrow at the older man as he steps forward, warm pizza box a barrier between the two.

  "Ladies first!" Wade bows curtly as the teen carefully clambers on to the ladder, pizza box still in hand.

 

  "Be careful!"

 

  "I will Wade . ."

 

  " _No!_ Be careful with my pizza!"

 Peter cranes his neck, wonderfully gentle eyes shooting Wade a half-hearted glare. In mere seconds the teen is at the mercs living-room window, easily scaling the aging ladder. Wade's ascent is not as smooth, slipping over two times and nearly falling off the ladder altogether another four. The teen can't help but laugh at Wade's efforts.

  "You're like a fucking spider!" Wade exclaims shakily, bent over himself and catching a breathe, "I should call you Spidey."

    [Hmm.]

    (Hmmm.)

 Peter softly smiles down at Wade's crouched form, a mischevious glint in his deep-set brown eyes, curly hair matted against his forehead, button-nose red not from drinking but from the January cold. The merc feels the urge to kiss the freckle-faced teen again, looking at Peter with a fond and slightly possessive gaze.

    (Maybe even pull at his hair. .)

  "So are you gonna open the window or what?" The younger boy teases, swiftly pulling off his black beanie to reveal curly, dark brown hair to match his equally dark eyes. Wade stands up carefully, reaching for the ice-ridden window.

  "I thought you weren't coming in?" Wade remarks as he pries open the glass.

 

  "It's cold as shit out here!"

 

  "What did I say about swearing?" The older man tsks as he crawls through the four-pane window, roughly landing on the wooden floor of his living room. The teen groans dejectedly as he hands Wade the pizza box before gracefully crawling through the window himself and into the unlit apartment.

 Peter peels off his heavy coat as Wade sets the pizza down on his coffee table, before turning on the floor lamp next to his sofa.

  "Let there be light!" The older man recites, throwing himself on his low and plush couch. He looks over to Peter, dim light casting a small shadow across his pale face. The teen kicks off his shoes before sinking to the floor, his back pressed against the leather couch.

  "What'd you wanna do?" Wade asks, tone gentle, as he leans over Peter to grab a slice of plain pizza. The teen shrugs slightly, resting his head on Wade's knee before slowly closing his eyes, "We could watch something."

 Wade hums in agreement, wolfing down his plain slice, sliding his mask back into place, and reaching for the remote, "Bob Ross?" Peter nods against the older man's knee, pink lips parted indolently, his delicate eyes still shut.

  "Don't you wanna come up here?" Wade asks quietly, once again leaning over Peter as he runs a scarred hand through the teen's soft, curly locks without hesitation.

 Peter hums again, pressing his head back needily into Wade's hands, a soft and barely there moan escaping his parted lips. The older man stifles a groan as Peter melts into his touch, a blissful expression on the teen's freckled face.

    (Oh my god! _Oh my god!_ Oh my go-)

  "C'mon baby boy," The older man mumbles, reluctantly removing his hand from Peter's hair, and instead, wraps his arms around the boy's shoulders firmly. The teen makes a sound of tired protest as Wade hoists Peter onto the couch, letting him take up most of the space. The older man moves so he's sitting on the longest part of the sectional, situated next to the teens head.

 Peter coos softly as he sinks into Wade's couch, mouth hanging open, curly brown hair fanning out on the cushion, and arms somewhat awkwardly thrown above his head. The merc leans on his elbow's as he looks down at the drowsy teen, "You okay staying here?"

 Peter hums contentedly, pink lips curved into a dazed smile, tired eyes crinkling in the corners.

 Wade leans closer to the brunet, a smirk tugging at his lips as he reaches out a delicate hand to Peter's face, the sickeningly sweet feeling returning to the merc's chest. The teen purrs softly as Wade begins to trace Peter's lips with his index, The brunet's tongue flicking out to lick along his finger. Wade slowly moves his hand to cup the teen's chin, turning Peter's head to face him. Peter's hands fall from his hair as he sits up, leaning on his elbow and looking at Wade with heavy eyes.

 The teen's hand comes up to Wade's face, caressing his masked cheek fondly before lightly tugging at the earloops of the blue garment, asking for permission. The merc pensively nods, and Peter gently removes the cheap mask, throwing it down beside him.

    [I don't like this.]

 The teen's movements are careful as he shifts closer to Wade on the sofa, pink lips once again close enough to graze the merc's chapped ones. Wade smirks softly as Peter closes his eyes, the merc's scarred hand ghosting under the teen's chin before he's closing his own, tilting his head forward slightly. The merc's clenching heart skips a beat when Peter's lips press to Wade's with a soft, desperate kiss, sending a lovely shudder down the older man's spine. The familiar scent of peppermint and ash envelopes the merc as he kisses him back, so slow and so steady, seemingly afraid to break the teen.

 Wade's hand moves to Peter's neck as the brunet breaks the kiss momentarily, his touch guiding the boy back to his lips possessively. Peter quickly shifts from leaning on his elbow to both his hands, surging forward in an attempt to deepen the kiss, his full lips slowly but deliberately moving against Wade's, asking for more, _wanting_ more. 

 The older man was pensive, surprisingly hesitant, to fervently kiss the teen back, like he so badly wanted to. Even though the idea of locking lips with Peter was one the merc had been pursuing since they met, it felt wrong. He couldn't bring himself to _take_ from Peter, and the older man could sense the teen's growing frustration. Wade's hand slowly moves down Peter's neck, thumb caressing the soft skin reassuringly before he's pulling away from the teen, lightly pushing on the brunet's chest to separate the pair. Peter is left chasing the kiss, his head falling against Wade's shoulder, curly hair and hot breath tickling the merc's neck.

  
  "You're so cute," Wade mumbles into Peter's mess of hair, massaging his hand through it cathartically. The teen responds with an open-mouthed kiss to Wade's neck before he's crawling on top of the older man with newly found urgency. 

    (Teenage hormones are a thing of wonder.)

 Peter presses his lean body flush against Wade's, kissing him eagerly. The teen's insistent mouth parts Wade's stunned lips, his tongue swiping across the merc's bottom lip hungrily, his hands pushing against his chest.

 Wade lets out an involuntary moan, the low and gravelly cry catching in his throat. The teen's movements seem to falter at the sound, his parted lips ghosting over Wade's teasingly. There's a beat of silence before the older man feels a cool liquid running down his upper lip, and then Peter's scrambling to get off of Wade, clutching his nose as blood pools in his hands.

  " _Shit, shit, shit._  " The teen whimpers, breathy and urgent, tilting his head back in an attempt to stop the blood.

 Wade hops off the couch himself, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand to reveal the crimson color smeared across scars.

    (That's Petey's blood!)

 

    [Gross.]

 

    (Hot!)

 He rushes over to his cramped kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels, before hurriedly running back to Peter and handing a wad to him.

  "You okay?" The merc asks softly, sitting Peter on the couch, "Do you need ice?". The teen merely nods, sinking into the cushions, cupping his nose with the paper towels. Wade grabs a couple cubes of ice and a dish towel for good measure before sitting next to Peter, a soothing hand on the brunet's knee.

  "Was that 'cause of me?"

 Peter laughs meekly, sitting criss-cross on the plush couch, head tilted back, "They just happen sometimes. ."

 The merc hums curiously, smirking at the teen, "Was it too much for you?" Wade wouldn't admit it, but the fact that Peter got a _fucking_ nosebleed over the older man was the most weirdly attractive thing he'd ever fathomed. He stares at the teen in mild disbelief and growing lust. 

    (Or we're just _super_ kinky.)

 Peter groans defeatedly, turning towards Wade and nudging his head into the older man's chest, "Don't make fun of me."

 Wade's hand returns to Peter's hair, the other softly rubbing circles into his back, pulling him closer, "Never, baby boy."

 It takes a minute or so for Peter's nose to stop bleeding completely, and still, the boy is a bit shaky, apologizing to Wade everyone couple seconds. The merc playfully shushes him every time, kissing the top of his head reassuringly.

  "I'm pretty tired, Wade. ." The teen says softly, burrowing his head into the crook of the older man's neck, and nestling into his side comfortably. Peter draws lazy circles into the merc's chest, sending pleasant tremors down Wade's spine as the two watch Bob Ross effortlessly paint one of his famed landscapes.

    ( _Errgh._ )

  "You can crash here. ." Wade says groggily, glancing from the top of Peter's head to the TV. The teen quietly nods, pressing an appreciative kiss into Wade's neck before seemingly dozing off, his frame further relaxing against Wade's, even breathes leaving pink, parted lips.

 The older man wraps his arms around the boy protectively, sighing contentedly, as he feels the shallow rise and fall of Peter's chest against his side.

    [Don't get too comfortable.]

 

    (We _could_ just fuck him and move on.)

 

    [Mmm.]

  "I'm not doing that. ." Wade mumbles into Peter's hair, his grip around the teen tightening slightly.

    (We could have him, right here, right n-)

 Wade growls defensively, harshly whispering " _Shut up!_ ", and immediately regrets it. 

 Peter stirs in his sleep, smacking his lips lazily, and nudging his nose into Wade's neck gingerly, unfazed. The older man sighs in relief, believing Peter to be a delicate flower that would wither if you so much as looked at him wrong. Wade wasn't going to hurt him, wouldn't dare to, pressing soft kisses into the teen's hair as if to punctuate his point.

      "Goodnight Petey. ." He murmurs softly, ignoring the unrelenting protests of both boxes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ! lemme know what you think xx


	5. the angel and the fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peter's completely and undoubtedly inebriated by wade, but the merc has other plans, reclaiming his crown as 'king of self-sabotagers.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, tysm for over 1K hits!! im so freaking happy bout that! its actually so cool, thank you again for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos (it always makes my day). anyways there's some actual plot in this whoops
> 
> song recs:  
> mini, mini, min - jacques dutronc  
> i should have known better - the beatles  
> baby doll - the buttertones

  As a New York native, Peter Benjamin Parker has seen his fair share of oddities, the very eccentricities a common thing and defining factor of the ever-peculiar city. The boy had once borne witness to a man covered in fake vines getting heckled by a homeless man on the D train.

  But nothing had quite prepared the teen for what he saw after waking up on Wade's couch that fateful weekday morning.

  The first thing Peter realizes as he gradually rises from a much-needed sleep is the saddening absence of another body. The brunet pouts tiredly at a Wade-shaped indent in the couch beside him.

  As sleep leaves the teens ears, He hears the sixties-reminiscent voice of Jacques Dutronc sounding through the small apartment, singing a melodic and obscure song in French.

  Peter rubs his eyes gently, propping himself up on the mix-matched couch cushions and looks around the apartment skeptically before his eyes land on the kitchen.

  There, he finds himself staring at Wade and a much older, grey-haired woman dancing around the small kitchenette to the French, sixties music. The older woman isn't really dancing, more so shuffling across the tile floors, her hands swaying above her head to the slowing beat. But Wade, _Wade_ is going all out. His hips swing to the rhythm in a curiously graceful manner, twirling himself haphazardly around the kitchen, nearly knocking over various cooking utensils and condiments.

  Peter can't help but sleepily smile at the merc, a warm, syrupy sweet feeling spreading from his chest to his cheeks as he watches Wade absentmindedly dance around, the notion of care or worry seemingly out the window. Wade finishes the song with a clumsy pirouette, catching Peter's eye mid-spin, causing him to stop dead in his not-so-nimble tracks.

   "Peter!" Wade yelps, his cheeks flushing a bright red, "How much of that did you see?"

 The teen giggles groggily, clambering off the couch, "Not much, but enough to know that I'm in the presence of a prima ballerina." The merc smiles sheepishly at the teen as he sluggishly makes his way over to the counter, socked feet dragging on wooden floors.

   "So this is Peter?" The grey-haired woman asks curiously, gesturing to empty space next to the brunet. Peter leans over the counter, propping his elbows up on the granite before resting his head in his hands with a yawn.

   "You can't see him, Al," Wade smirks at his roommate, "But yes, this is Peter." The merc moves Al's fragile hands so that they're in front of Peter's. The teen promptly shakes the woman's hand, uttering the cheeriest "Nice to meet you," he could muster, feeling as if he's met Wade's mother or something of the like.

   "So you're already spending the night, huh?" Al sniggers devilishly and Peter chokes on his spit. Wade's immediately in defense mode, adamantly denying anything Al implies, his face growing redder with distress by the second.

  "No Al! It's-uh, It's not like that!" The older man hurriedly explains, before pausing and lowly muttering, "At least, not yet." The grey-haired woman scornfully slaps Wade across the forearm, lips twisting into a disapproving frown.

  "Don't talk like that," She tsks, furrowing her brow at the merc.

 

   "And you're allowed to? That barely seems fair!"

 

   "It isn't. Get used to it."

  Wade shoots a half-hearted glare at his roommate, putting an end to their pointless bickering, and turns his attention back to Peter as Al saunters off to what the teen suspects to be the bathroom.

  "How'd you sleep, kitten?" Wade asks innocently, drumming his fingers on the counter top, a slight smirk to his tone. Peter's face turns bright red at Wade's comment, the heated memories of last night's tryst flooding back to him.

  He and Wade kissed for a blissful period of time, and the brunet knew full well that he'd acted like any other teenager would've; overeager and very, very desperate. Not only had the wiry teen been incredibly fervid, but also happened to get a 'spontaneous' nosebleed mid-makeout, caused by a low, downright unholy moan Wade let slip. That was the worst part (at least in Peter's mind).

  The teen buries his face in his hands, a burning heat spreading from his freckled cheeks to his neck, and then to his ears.

   " _God_ , I'm such a dork, I'm sor-" Peter begins, immensely embarrassed by his somewhat 'enthusiastic' efforts on the couch last night, but Wade is shushing him almost as soon as he starts apologizing, rounding the counter to stand beside him.

   "It was really adorable, and _totally_ hot, but mostly really fucking adorable."

  Peter looks at Wade through slender fingers to see the merc beaming at the teen, his eyes soft and void of mockery. The brunet slowly pulls his hands from his face, wearily looking at Wade.

   "I'm going to say this for the dozenth time, _you are too cute!_ " The older man exclaims happily, kissing Peter's still-burning cheek with an exaggerated 'smack.'

  The teen wipes at his face in faux disgust, before looking up at Wade sweetly, and cheekily muttering, "You missed."

  The older man quirks a questioning brow at Peter before a flash of understanding crosses his face, and he's smirking at the teen knowingly. Wade snakes a muscular arm around the younger man's slender waist, the other cupping his freckled cheek affectionately. The merc tilts Peter's face towards his, scarred lips still pulled into a smug smile, blue eyes mischievous.

   "You're not gonna get a nosebleed on me, are you?"

   "I'm not gonna ge-" Peter begins to retaliate, but his words seemingly die in his throat as Wade presses a delicate kiss to the corner of his lips. The merc's lips hover over Peter's for less than a moment (much to the teen's dismay) before Wade's swiftly pulling away from the boy and skipping towards the stove, leaving Peter confused and craving more.

 

     Fucking teenage hormones.

 

   "Banana or chocolate chip?" Wade asks cooly, grabbing a frying pan and turning the stove top on. Peter stumbles into one of the two barstool's Wade owned, his lips parted foolishly.

   "What?" The teen manages to squeak out.

 

   "Pancakes, Peter. _Pancakes_ ," Wade teasingly clarifies, "D'you want banana or chocolate chip?"

 

   "Oh, _um-_ chocolate chip?" The teen questions more so than answers, itching the nape of his neck out of anxious habit.

 

   "Got it," Wade hums mellowly, "No need to be nervous around me."

  Peter's cheeks flare again, a bashful smile spreading across his freckled face.

   "I'm no-"

   "You are," Wade interrupts, turning away from his pancake-making to face a blushing Peter, "but don't worry, baby boy. You'll warm up to me _real_ quick."

  The merc then leans across the counter to press a possessive, open-mouthed kiss to Peter's lips, and the teen's melting into Wade's touch instantaneously, a warm feeling pooling in his chest.

 

    Maybe it was the morning haze, but Peter felt absolutely heavenly.

 

  
\--

 

  
**yellow = ( )  
white = [ ]**

 

  The idea that Peter Parker genuinely enjoyed and relished in Wade's presence was a notion that the merc, at first, couldn't comprehend.

  He was constantly taken aback when the teen leaned in to kiss him or pressed closer into his side while they walked, or sent him cute, little text messages in class (as he often did). The kid was truly a blessing, just as his all-knowing roommate had predicted, and Wade couldn't get enough.

  Not only was Peter a sweetheart, but an absolute beaut; Much too cute to kiss, let alone be seen with, the merc (in his pessimistic opinion). Wade couldn't get over his freckled face, or the way he pouted his pink lips, or how his cheeks turned the prettiest shade of red when the merc said something slightly-

    [Completely.]

  -out of line.

  But after the initial shock, lasting a _long_ month, Wade was all over Peter, loving on the kid at any chance he got (even in unseemly situations). The older man especially loved to kiss Peter on the subway, as the boy always got fiercely flustered, freckled cheeks running red hot as he'd plead for Wade to stop for 'the sanity of fellow passengers, and quite frankly, himself.' Wade had a tough time not kissing Peter, the mere fact that he was actually _allowed_ to still somewhat foreign and baffling.

  The one downside to kind-of-dating a college student was that he had classes to attend and responsibilities to take care of, and couldn't be with the merc as often as the slightly possessive man would've liked.

    [Clingy much?]

 

    (Shut up, we're in _lo-ove!_ )

 

    [We're not even 'official,' and it's been a little under 2 months since 'The Couch Rendezvous.' Cool it.]  
  
    (You can't see it, but I'm glaring.)

  But Wade was utterly supportive of Peter, occasionally helping him study over the phone on some especially late nights, despite missing him continuously; The merc relied on Peter's presence most days, and as White said, It'd only been two months.

    (As stated, we're so, incredibly, fucked.)

    [And we haven't even _fucked_ _him_.]

  The older man couldn't help but agree, Peter had _wholly_ fucked him over, and in a positive way (he thinks). Wade had the nagging feeling, however, that he would somehow manage to ruin it all, at some point and at some time, he just hoped not too soon.

    [He still doesn't know about our job, how do you expect it to thrive?]

   (This is some George Costanza shit.)

  In all honesty, Wade wasn't sure. He intended to tell him, _he truly did_ , but the older man found it difficult to so much as mention death to Peter, again afraid that he'd break the boy, particularly if he was the one causing it.

    [Since when have you cared?]

    (He hasn't.)

  Wade avoided job offers for those two months as best he could, only accepting quick and comfortable ones if he felt up to it or if Peter was busy studying. So when Weasel called Wade's phone as he and Peter strolled down Canal St late, Sunday morning, demanding that he pick up due to it's 'utmost importance,' the merc's stomach churned unpleasantly.

   "Wade! _Wade!_ " Peter chirps, tugging at the older man's arm childishly as the merc picks up Weasel's call, "Fake Burberry!"

   "One sec, baby boy, " Wade mutters, pressing a tentative kiss to the teen's hair as Weasel's nasally voice sounds through the small speaker. Peter seems to understand, slinking off to one of the cramped, open-front shops, leaving Wade to his call with a small wave. 

   " _Baby boy?_ Who're you with?"

 

   "Hello to you too," Wade scoffs.

 

   "Anyways, we have a problem- Well, _you_ have a problem but same thing."

 

  Wade sighs, glancing at Peter worriedly, "What happened?"

   "Remeber Lucien Price?"

 

   "Pretentious art prick, Yeah."

 

   "He killed the guy that hired you."

 

  Wade goes silent, before softly saying "Maybe I should've used a gun."

   "Y _ou mean you didn't?_ " Weasel exclaims, tone laced with annoyance and doubt.

 

   "He didn't seem all that- _for lack of better word_ \- dangerous."

 

   "The dude's killed a _bunch_ of low-rate artists, Wade! This particular artist's dealer is the first to complain about Price, and now he's dead too." Weasel pauses briefly, followed by the sound of shuffling papers, "Long story short, a bunch of art dealers are pissed off at him now, and they want their twisted form of justice that _you_ just so happen to call a job."

  Wade pinches the bridge of his nose, beginning to wish he never agreed to the hit in the first place. Who knew the art world was so nasty?

    [ Everyone. _Literally_ everyone.]

     (It's an unrelenting bitch.)

   "So what do you want me to do?"

   "They want you to kill him, Wade."

  The merc huffs, glancing back at Peter, who's kindly giving what he assumes to be directions to a group of blatantly lost tourists, "Send me the details later."

   "Sick! just let me confirm wit-" Wade abruptly hangs up on his sort-of-friend and business partner before he can finish his sentence, stowing the out-dated flip phone in his pocket before walking over to Peter.

     [Told you he'd fuck it up.]

     (I was getting sick of this domestic bullshit anyways.)

   "Everything okay?" The teen asks softly, his thin arm finding it's way around Wade's as they continue their walk down Canal.

 

   "Yup!" Wade says, popping the 'p,' and forcing himself to smile at a concerned Peter, "Don't worry, kitten."

 

     [You should _definitely_ worry, 'kitten.'] White spat.

 

   "M'kay," Peter hums, pressing a reassuring kiss to the older man's shoulder, before smiling at the merc fondly, a honeyed look on his face.   

 

            Wade suddenly feels very, very ill.

 


	6. jabberjaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blind als really just trying to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! probably won't be updating as frequently in the coming months. the wildfire's here in cali have gotten horrible, and they've affected my family and i directly, so i'm going to b dealing with that for a bit. anyways, this is a bit of filler chap but is still significant to the plot (?).
> 
> song recs 
> 
> the end of comedy - drugdealer  
> sweet thing (live) - david bowie

>    "C'mon, kiss me goodbye," Peter whined, tugging at the sleeve of Wade's sweater with a playful smile.

 

   "Petey I-uh, I gotta go," Wade murmurs, avoiding Peter's eyes, as he retreats further into his shared apartment," Al needs her pills, and she's blind so y'know, wouldn't want any slip-ups." The older man laughs nervously, staring at his feet.

 

   "No, I understand, yeah. Sorry-," Peter finds himself stumbling over a useless apology, backing away from the merc and into the corridor as if he's crossed some sort of imaginary line.

 

   "Not your fault . ." Wade grumbles apathetically, itching at his nose absentmindedly, "Well, I'll see you around."

 

   "Yeah, um-bye," The teen awkwardly waves, forcing a smile at the merc as he slowly closes his apartment door with a torturous 'click,' and Peter's heart sinks at the sound.

 

   "This is a first. ." Peter mumbles to himself, glaring at the offending door with a new found hatred for the dumb, wooden thing.

   Usually, Peter didn't have to send more than a look the older man's way, and he'd be on top of the teen in 3 seconds flat. But Wade's been acting uncharacteristically distant and weird- _well_ , stranger than the merc normally acted, and Peter noticed his change in demeanor almost immediately as it had seemed to shift. He was reluctant to the touch the teen, let alone talk to him, and had been not-so-subtly avoiding Peter as of late.

  
  The teen stopped getting lewd texts from Wade in the middle of his English seminar, coaxing him to stop by his apartment for 'strictly platonic reasons.' No longer would Wade call him in the dead hours of the night, happily listening to Peter babble about important biology exams and his impending finals in a sleepy, coffee induced haze, before urging the teen to get some sleep (something he was perpetually deprived of). But what Peter missed most of all, was the way Wade played with his hair. His calloused hands running through the teen's curls felt absolutely heavenly, and the absence was driving Peter nearly insane.

  
  The teen scoffs at his own childish dependence on Wade. If he hadn't happened to crash his old, rusting bike into _that_ specific curb outside _that_ particular bodega in Queens, the two would've never met, and Peter wouldn't be fretting over whether or not the merc truly cared for him or had simply lost interest. Peter blows a strand of dark hair out of his face with a defeated sigh. Stupid feelings; why'd Wade have to go out of his way to be so damn nice? _And_ give him his number? Peter finds himself helplessly irritated by Wade, agitated and perplexed, for no valid reason at all.

  
  So why was the college student still standing on Wade and Al's doorstep, his nose crinkled and brow furrowed in frustration? Another question Peter could not answer logically. The teen wanted to tell himself it was no big deal; Wade lost feelings for him, _so what?_ Peter had been blown off before, all he had to do was get over it.

   "Easy-peasy," Peter breathes shakily, turning away from the devilish door to make his way down the hallway before he's stopped by a warbly voice calling out to him.

 

   "Peter! Didn't know you were coming over, Wade needs to start using the door-sock system . ." Al greets as she shuffles over to Peter, two plastic bags slung on her arm, the other holding a long, red-tipped cane, "Just got back from the pharmacy, mind helping me with the bags?"

 

   "Oh um, I- I'm not sure that's a great idea " Peter replies wearily, voice sounding shakier than he would've liked as the old woman drops her heavy bags into the teen's arms. Not only had Wade blown Peter off, but had lied to him, and that seemed to only hurt the teen more.

 

   "What happened, Peter?," She asks in an uncharacteristically soft and concerned tone, seemingly picking up on the waver of his voice.

 

   "Oh, it's nothing really!" Peter lies, forcing a reassuring smile, "Just stressed y'know? Got a lot to do."

Al slowly nods, as if she understands, before cooly asking, "Still willing to take my bags inside?" On any other evening, Peter would've happily obliged, but he's hesitant and Al, sharp as ever (despite her old age), seems to notice his blatant reluctance.

   "Don't worry," Al smiles as sweetly as she can, rummaging through her sweatpant pocket for her keys, "I'll just tell Wade you were out here crying."

 

   " _I wasn't-_ No Al, you can't I'll - " Peter begins to frantically argue, before Al's shushing him again.

 

   "Wade's a big idiot; that's the first thing you should know," She informs, impatiently rattling her key in the apartment's rusting keyhole, "I'll talk to him." The door clicks open again, and Al holds out her free arm to Peter expectantly, waiting for him to hand over the bags.

 

   "Thanks," Peter croaks as he gently returns her pharmacy goods, smiling crookedly.

 

   "I may be old, Peter. But I'm not stupid," Al's smiling again as she pushes the door open with her seeing cane, "Wade, on the other hand, I can't say much." Peter nods doubtfully as the wooden door once again closes in his face.

  The teen remembers what Wade had said when the pair first met, that he was, quote on quote, "An Idiot named Wade." Peter's heart flutters and then aches at the thought of the enamored memory as he stalks down the dimly lit hallway. The teen hadn't thought that then and wouldn't think it now; If anyone was the idiot, it was Peter.

  The brunet was the one helplessly trailing after the merc, like the lovesick puppy he was. Peter wants to kick himself as he saunters out of Wade's downtown complex and onto the icy sidewalk. How could he let himself believe for _a second_ that Wade would in any way want to be involved with a needy teenager such as himself? He had definitely come across as overeager, and Wade's reluctance to see the teen only served as an affirmation of his assumptions.  
  
   "Stupid," Peter scolds himself, slapping the palm of his hand to his head, groaning in a mix of both anger and sadness. The teen shuffles through the pockets of his winter coat as he walks, attempting to find his phone but to no avail. Instead, he finds loose change, a lighter, chapstick, and an unopened pack of Camels. Peter turns the pack around in his hands a couple of times, stopping in the middle of the nearly vacant sidewalk. The teen never considered himself 'a smoker,' convincing himself that it was a novelty he occasionally indulged in. He wouldn't admit that he'd find himself buying more packs than usual, but that wasn't the focus of Peter's problems at the moment.

  The college student rips open the pack with one swift motion, ignoring the warning labels, and delicately picking up a cigarette between his index and middle finger. He fishes the lighter out of his pocket, lighting the Camel and placing it loosely between his pink lips. It lingers there for a bit, simply burning off, before he inhales rather sharply, resulting in a violent coughing fit. The cigarette falls from his mouth and onto the concrete. Peter scowls, cursing to himself and letting out another groan of frustration. He crushes the barely smoked cigarette under the sole of his shoe angrily and stalks off towards the subway station.

   "Can't even smoke a cigarette right," The teen murmurs to himself in a huff, pulling his jacket closer to him. The cold nips at his nose and cheeks as he carefully walks along the icy cement, his eyes a faint red from the lingering smoke and an onslaught of unshed tears that had been threatening to spill ever since his conversation with Al. 'Stupid' Peter thinks, scrutinizing himself once again, 'Stupid emotions, stupid hormones, _stupid me._ '

  The lighter and box of Camel's bounce on Peter's hip as he steps down the narrow, subway stairway, an oddly comforting feeling to the teen. Peter momentarily contemplates whether or not he should smoke another as he walks past ticketing, finding a weird and somewhat concerning solace in the 'recreational activity,' but ultimately decides against it. The college student routinely swipes his card and slips into the 2 train, before beginning his lengthy trip back to Columbia campus.

  Peter would be lying if he said he didn't softly cry at least once on the painfully long train ride home, all small sniffles and bitter tears, expertly ignoring the pitying gazes of fellow passengers. How juvenile.

 

  
\--

 

  
   "Wade, you can't just up at leave!" Al argues from behind the merc, her lips pulled into a tight frown.

   "I can, and I am," Wade bites back bitterly, zipping up the last of his duffels. Al had tried to confront the merc late last night, but Wade was swift in tuning the old woman out, not caring for her imminent lecture. The merc had hoped to leave their shared apartment undisturbed, but Al was quick to her feet and had practically cornered him.

   "What about me, Wade? What about-," Al pauses, collecting herself and thoughts, before harshly yet quietly saying, "What about Peter?'

     (I'm gonna miss baby boy.)

   "What about him?" Wade slings a duffel over either shoulder, turning to pointedly glare at his roommate, "We barely know each other. And you- you can take care of yourself. You always have."

   "Have you told him you're leaving?" Al scoffs, adjusting her heavily shaded glasses, before reminding, "That kid is a fucking blessing Wade." The merc falls silent, his heart dully aching at the mention of the near-angelic boy. Peter _was_ a blessing, one that Wade had quickly ruined.

     [As expected.]

  But it was probably for the best. It _had_ to be for the best, for Wade's fleeting sanity.

   "Will you at least tell me where you're going?" Al sighs defeatedly, her imposing stance deflating; A surrender, so to speak.

   "France," Wade replies cooly, "Just research, a month tops." Al frowns again, and Wade presses quick kisses to either of the old woman's wrinkled cheeks, "I'll be back before you know it." Al grimaces, lips twisting into a faint and somewhat aloof smile as Wade jars open their dingy apartment door, squeezing himself and his two beat up duffels through.

"Idiot," She says simply, absentmindedly waving at him as he disappears into the hallway, and out of the old woman's life for the next three and a half weeks.


	7. the past tense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wade hates france and emre hates wade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> promise things will start heating up again! also just a fair warning, there will b mentions of drug (specifically nicotine) withdrawals in upcoming chapters, so just know in case thats sensitive to any of you. 
> 
> song recs:
> 
> window - kid bloom  
> sealed with a kiss - bobby vinton  
> that's not me - the beach boys

   "Wade!" Peter gasps sweetly, back arching beautifully off the mattress, and eyes tightly shut in utter euphoria as the merc bites and licks into a particularly sensitive spot on the brunet's pale neck, Wade's hips grinding into him in a deliberately slow manner.

   "Mine," Wade growls possessively, slotting a knee between Peter's open legs as a wave of arousal crashes over him. The merc watches with lustful eyes as Peter keens, his large hand finding it's way to the teens lower back, the other moving to cradle his pretty little head before continuing to mark the boy's skin with wine-colored kisses.

   "So pretty . ." Wade mumbles into the crook of Peter's neck, teething at the sensitive skin playfully, before kissing along his collarbone, "And all mine."

   "Yours, Wade," The teen affirms, bitten nails digging into Wade's shoulders, the merc's name falling from Peter's pink lips over and over again in lovely little cries.

  The sound was music to Wade's ears, to hear Peter call out his name like that. However, watching him writhe under his touch was all the more pleasing - but something was off, something he couldn't quite pinpoint. The teen's voice grew increasingly distant as the merc continued to trail kisses down his torso, the whole interaction beginning to feel like an out-of-body experience, as the lines of Peter's slender body grew fuzzy and out of focus.

  The teen's voice turned sharp and nasally, no longer moaning his name but instead yelling it.

   "Wade!" The disembodied voice shrilly yells once more, before the merc's eyes snap open, realizing it was not Peter chanting his name, but someone entirely different, and significantly less angelic. Wade finds himself staring at the cracking ceiling of his temporary apartment, rather than mouthing wet, hot kisses into Peter's collarbone.

     (Like that'd happen after the shit we pulled.)

  Wade groans in disappointment, ignoring his hard-on as he reaches towards the answering machine on his bedside table.

   "Wade! This is your wake-up call! Well- voicemail, but same thing," Weasel's nasally voice sing-songs through the machine's cheap speaker, coaxing the merc to get up and start 'another brilliant day.' Wade couldn't disagree with Weasel's sentiment more.

  The merc picks up the cordless phone and quickly dials Weasel's number, the line trilling for a blissful couple of seconds before Wade's once again greeted by the sound of the bartender's nagging voice.

   "So you can pay for international calls, but not drinks?" Weasel cracks, a frown evident in his voice.

 

   "G'morning . ." Wade grumbles, absentmindedly picking at the hem of his sweatpants.

 

   "So how's week three going?" Weasel asks conversationally, "Homestretch, big guy! Couple more days."

   "It's just research, Weasel. It's not all that exciting; Just figuring out Price's patterns and whatnot, so I'm prepped when he comes back to New York and kills another Andy Warhol wannabe," Wade explains in a low mumble, squinting at the ceiling.

   "Yeah, yeah," Weasel dismissively acknowledges, "But it makes the gory party easy-peasy! And that's what gets you paid, and of course, a lil' cash for me, your oh so loyal friend."

  Wade hums, too tired to correct him, "Well I wouldn't wanna run up your phone bill."

   " _Aww_ , how considerate. Call me if anything interesting happens."

 

   "Sure you can afford it?"

 

   "Bye Wade." And with that, the line goes dead.

  The merc decided he hated Paris within the first few days of being there, and nothing had been able to change his attitude towards the French city after determining this. There was nothing really wrong with the city, it was merely what the French capital lacked: A certain freckle-faced boy who Wade found himself thinking about constantly.

     (Which doesn't make sense since you were the one to break it off.)

     [It's better this way.]

   "But is it?" Wade asks wistfully, setting the phone on the bedside table, "I miss him almost as much as I miss authentic tacos, which is saying a lot."

     (You've made that fairly fucking clear, considering the number of times you've jacked off to the thought of him.)

     [Again. Barely knew the kid, doesn't give you the right to miss him this badly.]

  Wade groans again, scarred hand dipping into his boxers out of habit, his palm simply laying flat on his lower abdomen.

     He was in too deep.

 

\--

 

   "You've started smoking more," Al notes, sitting next to the freckle-faced boy on her leather couch, a cup of tea in hand.

  Peter merely hums, smacking the pack of Camel's against his palm habitually, "Maybe."

  The teen had visited Althea a couple dozen times in the past three weeks, the old woman having grown on the college student in lieu of Wade's absence. Peter quickly began to understand why she and the merc were so close; they complimented each other, in more ways than one. Peter and Althea spent those 'Wade-free' weeks watching soap opera's (while Althea listened), trying (and failing) at making various types of pies, and, of course, talked about Wade and his big, dumb mouth (that Peter would very much like to kiss). But Peter was mad at Wade, something he had to remind himself of constantly.

   "Don't tell me you're forming an addiction," Al chastises, slyly and swiftly grabbing the unopened pack from Peter's hands, spilling a splash of her tea on the leather in the process.

 

   "I'm not!" The teen whines, grabbing for his Camel's impatiently, "I can stop if I want to."

 

   "Don't start with that shit," Al tucks the pack into her shirt, "You're too young, Pete."

 

   "I can take care of myself," The teen huffs, sinking into the leather couch.

   "Denial, denial," Al hums contemptuously, feeling around for the TV remote "You sound like Wade." Peter scoffs, glaring at the old woman half-heartedly.

   " _What?_ It's true. Guy's always claiming he's 'got this,' when he, in fact, doesn't," Al explains as she switches from channel to channel, listening for a Golden Girl's re-run, "When something goes right in his life, he loses control, begins self-sabotaging because he doesn't know how to react; he's not used to it." Peter frowns minutely, shifting to face Al.

   "I try to tell Wade he deserves any fleeting moment of happiness he can get, tell him to get the pity-dick out his mouth and relish in his joy for once," Al continues, settling for the latest episode of 'American Idol, "but he denies it, tells me he's better off without it; he's convinced himself he is."

   "It's probably why he's in France right now with a license to kill, Wade likes you, and he doesn't know what to do about it because you make him happy," Al's tone becomes serious.

   "Wade thinks he can take care of himself, but he can't, he _always_ spirals, he's spiraling right now," Al frowns, sipping her cup before going on, "he needs someone to tell him he's worthy of feeling better than just okay, Wade won't believe it on his own."

  Peter nods languidly, contemplating Al's words for a silent few minutes, mindlessly watching the screen in front of him.

   "That still doesn't make up for him just up and leaving," Peter pauses, shakily sighing before continuing, "I understand why- I mean I sort of do. Just- I'll talk to him, but I mean, We were just getting to know each other, so I don't see why I-""

   "It's okay Peter, " Al interrupts (as she often did), saving Peter from a stuttering mess, "You're right to be upset, just understand Wade's an overdramatic idiot, as I've said before."

  Peter laughs weakly, curling into the couch cushion, "So what'd you mean by the whole 'license to kill' thing?"   
  
   "Oh, that? Think that's for you and Wade to discuss, it's not my place."

 

   "Not your place? Way to be ominous Al."

 

   "It's my strong suit."

  It's nearing eight by the time Peter's treading down the familiar steps of Wade and Al's shared apartment. It was late April, and the snow that had blanketed New York's streets in the winter had melted away as soon as the rainy season began. It was still cold though, most days no warmer than fifty degrees.

  After a tiring train ride, Peter finds himself sauntering into his dorm room, ignoring Emre's questioning gaze and suddenly feeling very, very groggy. The teen collapses into his twin bed, not caring to take off his shoes or coat.

   "You okay?" Emre asks, and Peter lifts his head just enough to see the film major leaning in the doorway of their shared bathroom, a smirk on his bony face. Peter hums gently, "Just tired." His roommate quickly crosses the room and sits himself down on the edge of Peter's bed, placing a delicate hand on the brunet's ankle.

   "What's up?"

   "Al said something interesting," Peter pauses, swatting at his roommate's hand, "Something- something about Wade." Emre's movements still, playful grin falling from his thin lips, and Peter pouts.

   "I know you don't like him, but I - I feel sorry for him, I think- Well more concerned than sorry." Emre sighs, wearily looking at his friend.

 

   "It's not that I don't like him, he just didn't give me the chance to think otherwise. He made you worry for weeks, Peter, I mean you're still worried. He can't just do that."

 

   "I know, and I agree, but Al says that he's, I dunno- He has a whole inferiority complex, I think- well not exactly, but it's- It's sad," Peter frowns into his pillow, thinking back on what Al said, "He doesn't think he deserves happiness, meaning he doesn't think he deserves me, I guess."

   "Or he's just an overdramatic idiot."

 

  Peter laughs meekly, "That's exactly what Al said."

   "Then I like Al," Emre murmurs, and Peter giggles again, playfully kicking his roommate's stomach.

   "You're such a narcissist," Peter jests, nuzzling further into his pillow, wanting very badly to fall asleep.

   "How could I not be? Have you _seen_ my face?" Peter's laughing now, stomach hurting as Emre continues to flatter himself, complimenting himself on his 'perfect bone structure' and 'artistically quaffed hair.'

   "You'd like Wade too, If you gave him a chance." Emre hums in half-hearted agreement, smiling weakly.

   "I'll give him a chance for you, but he better explain himself, or he's getting a couple kicks to the shins," The blonde playfully threatens, soothing hand returning to Peter's ankle. A comfortable silence falls over the two, Emre's hand drawing circles into Peter's leg and making the brunet slowly grow more and more tired.

   "Thanks," Peter murmurs softly.

 

    "For what?"

 

    "For being a good friend."

    "I should be thanking you!" Emre exclaims, jumping up from Peter's bed, startling Peter out of his sleepy haze, "You have yet to make any sexual advances on me! And with an ass _like this_ , it must be hard to resist!" The blonde points to his rear to emphasize his point, a stupid grin spreading across his face.

     "It is _oh so_ difficult."

 

     "Thought so," Emre smirks, slinking towards their bathroom, "Night Pete."

 

    "G'night," Peter softly mumbles, before he finds himself sweetly enveloped by sleep, a tired smile on his face as he sinks further into his twin bed.

 

\--

 

  The rest of the week continues as usual; Peter attends class, bickers with Emre about anything and everything, takes far too many naps, visits Althea, goes through a pack of Camel's in two days, works a couple shifts at the college coffee shop, studies for his upcoming finals, and thinks about Wade for a ridiculous amount of time. Peter would say it was pretty typical.

  It's Friday evening when Emre leaves his calculus textbook on the 1 train.

   "Peter! I'm screwed," Emre sobs defeatedly as he slumps to the dorm floor, his hands raking through his blond hair anxiously, "Without that textbook, I'm finished! _Finito!_ I can kiss my bachelor's degree goodbye."

  Peter looks up from his paper on 'the art of overanalyzing literature,' to glance at his troubled roommate who's taken to simply laying on the carpeted floor.

   "Can't you buy a new one?"

  Emre scoffs, rolling over to face the freckle-faced boy, "Am I a rich playboy all of a sudden? Please tell me I am."

  Peter rolls his eyes, "I can chip in if it's really that important."

   "Are _you_ a rich playboy?" The blonde gasps, propping himself up on his elbows to narrowly stare at the brunet, "Or is Wade your sugar daddy?"

 

   "No and no," Peter deadpans, hoping Emre doesn't mention the blush creeping up his neck and cheeks, "I have a job, y'know."

 

   "So the playboy works!" Emre muses, seemingly collecting himself before saying, "But seriously, where can I get a new textbook?"

 

   "There should be some at the bookstore," Peter says, before checking the time on his laptop, "It's open until seven, you have like 20 minutes."

 

   "Let's go!" Emre exclaims, jumping to his feet and grabbing Peter by the wrist, yanking him off his twin bed and dragging him out of their dorm.

   "I don't have shoes on!" Peter yelps as his friend pulls him down Carman hall's many flights of stairs.

   "Does it matter?" Emre asks, "We have bigger problems, Pete! Socks are armor enough." Peter rolls his eyes, letting his friend drag him towards Columbia's bookstore in just his fuzzy, grey socks, ignoring the confused gazes of passersby.

   "Okay, where are the textbooks at?" Emre asks hurriedly as the pair step off the escalator.

   "Towards the back," Peter sighs, pointing in the vague direction of said textbooks. The brunet watches in bewilderment as Emre sprints off that way, nearly knocking over various displays in his determined path.

  The brunet browses through the large bookstore while he waits for Emre, passing the latest collection of school apparells and shelves stocked with various office supplies, before stopping in the classics section in the corner of the shop. The place is almost vacant, being so close to closing time, except for a scattered few people milling around in the comfortable quiet.

  The teen grabs the first book that looks at least a little interesting and mindlessly skims through it, thoughts quickly wandering elsewhere. The brunet doesn't realize the presence of another person sorting through the selection of language and multicultural books in the shelves opposite to Peter, having been so absorbed in his own thoughts.

   "Hey sorry, you look like you go here," The man starts, tapping Peter's unsuspecting shoulder as politely as he can. The teen jolts, briskly snapped out of his thoughts by the familiar voice before swiveling around to face the shoulder-tap perpetrator.

   "I'm looking for a book on Paris. It's for this _crazy smart_ kid, he goes here act-" The man's voice falters, a startled expression crossing his face as he stares down at the teen, chapped lips parted in suppressed shock.

   " . . Peter! Good to see you, Uh-"

_"Wade?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! lemme know what you think xx


	8. a lover's question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wade and peter talk (not really though).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this update took so long? i was dealing with a ton of shit + writer's block but here you are! again somewhat of a filler chap but important to the little plot this shit has ;(
> 
> enjoy! and thanks again for reading!! 
> 
>  
> 
> song recs:
> 
> so he won't break - the black keys  
> close to me - the cure  
> 505 - the arctic monkeys

  In Wade's imagination, he'd come home to his modest, Bowery apartment, only to be welcomed by the lingering scent of Peter's coconut shampoo and the absence of the ever-motherly Althea. The teen would call out from the merc's bedroom, soft voice oozing with lust and a sort of _need_ that made the older man's mind spin. Wade would hastily drop his bags to the floor (as trope-y as it was), sprinting towards the source of the angelic voice desperately, and narrowly tripping over Al's ugly ass carpet runner in search of his beloved boy. Peter would be waiting on his bed, lying on his side wearing nothing but a plaid skirt hiked high up on his slender legs and a white, lacy bralette that Wade had not-so-jokingly bought him for Valentine's day. He'd have his hands between his pillowy, pale thighs, a coy smile on his pretty, pink lips, looking up at Wade through long, dark lashes with a lecherous look that said " _Please_."

  But the present was not Wade's perfect fantasy, and instead of smiling, the freckled-face boy is glaring at the merc, fully clothed. Nonetheless, Peter's prettier than Wade remembers, but also concerningly thinner, looking more fragile than the boy ever had. His rose-tinted cheeks appeared hollower, yet further defined, wonderfully accentuating the dirt colored specks that decorated his cheeks and dainty button nose.

     [Just say freckles, damn lady.]

  His dark brown hair, a perpetually curly, unkempt mess on his head had grown longer, wavy strands falling into his eyes in a way that made Wade's heart swoon. And then there were Peter's lips. Full, pink, and kissable; another realm of perfection altogether, and possibly more beautiful at this moment than they were three weeks and five days ago. Wade doesn't realize he's staring at Peter before it's too late.

  A harsh slap to his forearm snaps the merc out of his trance, quickly followed by an annoyed shout of, "Asshole!" Wade blinks, once, twice, three times to see Peter glaring up at the masked man, brows knit together and nose adorably crinkled in justifiable annoyance.

   "You're cute when you're angry," Wade blurts, momentarily feeling sorry, before smirking at the way Peter's freckle-dusted cheeks quickly redden at his words.

   "You can't just do that," Peter sputters, obviously flustered, "You're the biggest idiot I know." The teen slaps Wade's arm with a newfound vengeance, aggressively making his point to the merc.

   "I deserve that," Wade admits, smiling apologetically at Peter, "I'm sorry, I just-"

   "Sorry?" Peter interrupts impatiently, once again glowering at Wade (and making the merc wince), " _Sorry?_ I was so worried about you! Angry too, but mostly concerned. You _can't_ just leave like that! At least tell me, I mean-"

   "I know, I know," Wade nods, hanging his head shamefully, "I just didn't think we were that- _involved_ , I guess." And Peter makes a face.

   "Or I didn't know if we were. ." Wade explains hurriedly, suddenly feeling very childish, "Like boyfriends or .. whatever?"

   "Or whatever," Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes before softly smiling, " _Of course_ we were boyfriends Wade! I didn't think we were like fuck buddies or some shit, I mean, we haven't even- _y'know_."

   "What? Do I know what?" Wade asks innocently, smirking at the teen as his cheeks yet again go aflame. Nothing had changed.

   " _You know!_ " Peter exclaims, his pretty pink lips curving into a pout, "But we were boyfriends! - at least I thought so."

   "Does that mean I get to call you 'sweetums'?" Wade asks excitedly, beaming at the teen and ultimately allaying his lingering doubts. The brunet shakes his head in disbelief, a subtle smile on his lips, "I'm still mad at you."

   "Aww, Petey-pie don't be!" Wade pleads, smirking at his 'sweetums.' The teen peers up at the merc with an undeniably fond look in his eyes, his formerly faint smile growing wide and warm, glare vanishing completely.

   "I missed you," Peter suddenly confesses, before lunging forward and wrapping his thin arms around Wade's torso, pulling the older man in for a tight, affectionate hug. Wade almost instantly returns it, cuddling the teen in the folds of his arms, holding him as close as he can. The merc then rests his chin in Peter's mess of hair, soft curls licking at Wade's jaw and neck in a way that makes his heart flutter sweetly. Peter's hands grab at the back of the merc's sweater as he further melts into Wade's touch, a contented sigh escaping his parted lips.

"I missed you too," Wade mutters softly, squeezing Peter once more before reluctantly pulling away from him, aching at the loss of contact as soon as the pair separate, because _holy shit_ , Wade had missed him.

     (So much.)

     [Too much.]

   "We still need to talk though," Peter hesitantly adds, before reassuringly smiling at Wade. The merc responds with a curt nod, his own, sheepish grin faltering slightly before recognizing that Peter needed an explanation. In fact, an explanation was the least Wade could do to make it up to the teen, wholeheartedly believing that Peter deserved more than the merc could offer.

     (Ooh, how 'bout breakfast in bed after a lavish night of lovemaking?)

     [Don't think we're quite there yet.]  
  
   "Of course, kitten," Wade agrees, hesitant to call Peter by the nickname, feeling like it was no longer his to coin, "Later tonight, maybe? Al says she's missed you more in the last two days than she's missed me in the past month."

  Peter visibly relaxes, freckled- face softening as he lets out a light, angelic laugh, "Sure, I- uh, I'm just waiting on Emre." Wade tenses, a strained and somewhat scared expression flashing across his face; Emre can and _will_ kick his ass, as the blonde had warned time and time again. Now he had good reason too.

   "Don't worry, I won't let him hurt you," Peter pauses, before adding in a hushed tone, "Badly." The teen smirks at Wade with a knowing gaze, doe eyes devious as he stares up at the merc with a look that could end him. And Wade couldn't have that, in fact, _he wouldn't._ Proving a point to himself, he grabs Peter by his chin with a low hum, pulling the boy's face close to his own possessively.

   "I thought I was supposed to be protecting you baby boy?" Wade whispers, staring into Peter's dark eyes and licking along his chapped lips predatorily (though the teen can't see), "Not the other way round."

   "Is that why you left for a month? _To protect me?_ " Peter asks, a lick of venom in his tone as he narrows his eyes at Wade quizzically, tilting his pretty little head ever so slightly. The merc's devilish grin wavers under his mask, heart dully aching, because he hurt Peter, something he promised himself he'd never do.

      [We were protecting him from ourselves.]

      ( _Really?_ Do you even realize how cliche that is?)

   "Maybe," Wade grumbles, scarred hand falling from Peter's chin, looking away from the teen with a sigh. But Peter is relentless, grabbing hold of Wade's wrist and pulling the merc to face him once again in a single, quick movement.

   "At least gimme a kiss?" Peter asks softly, delicate hand pulling at the elastic strings of Wade's medical mask, standing on his tip-toes to match the merc's height, "You owe me." Wade has a hard time saying no to the kid.

  The merc tucks his mask under his chin reluctantly, giving in to Peter's silent pleas, "Owe you I do, but uh- are you sure?"

   "Positive," The teen sing songs, batting his long, dark lashes at the older man teasingly. Wade ducks his head with a bashful smile, the familiar syrupy-sweet feeling oozing from his chest, before realizing that Peter isn't wearing his usual pair of Converse, his feet instead clad in fuzzy, grey socks that sat slouched little ways beneath his knee. The older man leans forward, chapped lips just barely brushing against Peter's ear.

   "Where are your shoes?" Wade asks in a low, hopefully, seductive whisper as he nibbles at the boy's earlobe playfully, before swiftly pulling away from the teen with a satisfied smirk. Peter blinks at the merc blankly, a look of confusion plastered across his quickly-reddening face.

   "Ohh, I um- I, We were in a rush," The teen seems to remember, a delicate hand coming up to ghost over his abused ear with dazed wonder. Wade hums mockingly, as if understanding Peter's inept explanation, his lips once again twisting into a stupid grin (a trademark look of his).

   "Whatever you say, kitten," Wade mumbles fondly, planting nimble kisses into both corners of Peter's perfect lips, and a third on his cute, little nose before moving to seal a final kiss on those pink lips he adored, but is abruptly stopped by the taxing voice of a third person behind the pair.

   "What're you doing Peter?" Emre demands, his tone sharp and unsettled as he looks from Wade to Peter with an acute glare, "And Wade? What're _you_ doing with _Peter?_ "

  Wade hastily slides his mask back over his nose and mouth. "I'm was trying to crush his face in a completely, totally platonic way," Wade quips, stepping away from the teen with an unseen charming grin, knowing full well he shouldn't 'joke around' with Peter's currently appalled friend. Before Emre can respond, Peter quickly saves Wade from an impending lecture and a possible aggravated assault.

   "It's fine Emre," Peter warns, voice wavering slightly,"I mean, _it's not_ , but we're figuring it out, talking about it-"

 

   "That doesn't look like talking," Emre adds helpfully, and Peter's face flushes a pink to match his lips.

 

   "Then let us actually talk?" The teen pleas, biting his lower lip anxiously, " _Please?_ "

  Emre seems to deflate, his bitter expression unwavering, as he lets out a defeated sigh; he couldn't say no to Peter either. Wade never quite understood the dynamic between Peter and Emre. Of course, he knew they were good friends, but Emre had somewhat of a parental presence over Peter; He was protective of the kid, in a strictly platonic way.

  "Okay," The blonde simply concludes, "But no sleepovers tonight, Alright?" Peter merely nods, willing himself a small grin. Emre returns the smile, hesitant and wry, but a grin nonetheless.

  "Did you get your textbook?" Peter asks, the nonchalance of the question cutting through the rigid tension in the air. Emre shakes his head sadly, and Wade leaves the pair to bicker about its price and the logistics of buying an entirely new one or alternatively borrowing from someone named 'Ned.'

  By the time Peter and Emre have come to somewhat of a conclusion, a skittish employee, looking no older than the two college students, is ushering the trio out of the bookstore. He's a stuttering mess, but nonetheless, get's the job done, leaving the shop vacant.

  Emre says his goodbyes to the pair, seding a warning glare Wade's way as he walks off; The merc returns it with another unseen smile, he just hopes Emre understands.

  Wade turns back to Peter, towering over the beautiful boy and looking at him fondly, before lowly whispering, "So what now?"

     The teen shudders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks 4 reading! lemme know what you think xx


	9. like mia wallace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wade and peter actually talk and maybe make out a little (a lot).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, thank you all so friggin much for a little over 2.5 K hits! it's honestly so sick that people are reading my shit and enjoying it? makes me really happy lol 
> 
> once again, thank you for commenting and leaving kudos (200? what??); they don't go unnoticed! anyways sksksk , this chapters kinda steamy so be warned i think?
> 
> song recs: 
> 
> turn back time - the feelies  
> mystery of love - sufjan stevens  
> when you're near me i have difficulty - xtc

  
  There were many ways Peter expected the evening to go.

  However, sitting shoeless on the carpeted floor of a convenience store, having a serious conversation with his maybe-boyfriend, was not something the college student had anticipated. He imagined the pair having this discussion over dinner at Tom's Resturant, or on Wade's leather couch with a movie playing, or maybe even on a bench in Central Park, but not _this._

   "It's not that I don't trust you, Peter," Wade says, lowering his voice as a middle-aged man stumbles past their aisle, "I just don't know if I'm ready myself, y'know? Your opinion means a lot to me, and I dunno what I'd do if you thought less of me; It scares me honestly."

  Peter nods languidly, digesting Wade's words. He's always hated these conversations, not that's he's had a lot of them, but most of the time he'd want them to end as quickly as possible, hurrying through the conversation, and leaving important things unresolved. This was too important for Peter to speed through, so he'd have to suffer through, for Wade's sake.

   "I don't want you to be scared of me," Peter says softly, sort of curling in on himself, "And I also don't want you to feel obligated to tell me all of your deep, dark shit, 'cause you don't, you'll never have too."

   "I can't force you to let me in," Peter continues, absentmindedly picking at a loose thread in the floor's carpeting, "If one day you do decide to let me in, you will, and I'll be all loving and welcoming, and you won't have to worry. Neither will you owe me an explanation, because you don't owe me anything."

   "And If for some reason it's really bad, like, _really_ bad," The teen looks up at Wade now, doe eyes fond and forgiving, "We'll just have to figure it out, okay? Just please don't run again, I was starting to think I did something wrong."

  Wade's apparently stunned into silence, blinking at the teen indolently. He carefully slides his flimsy mask to the underside of his chin, lips opening and the closing with the intention of saying something, but seems to be at a loss.

   "I mean did I?" Peter asks nervously, chewing on his lower lip, "Did I do something wrong?" There's a beat of terrifying stillness before Wade's lunging at the teen, nearly knocking over a shelf or two behind Peter, and pressing quick, urgent kisses all over his freckled face, sealing each peck with a mumble of " _angelic_ ," " _perfect_ ," or " _darling_ ," his large hands cupping either of his cheeks.

   "You could never do anything wrong," Wade murmurs as he mouths away at the underside of Peter's jaw, voice dripping with undeniable affection and sincerity. And the teens melting all over again, yielding to Wade's adoring touch willingly. It must've looked inherently strange to the average passerby; A man covered in abstract blemishes of burn scars kissing along the neck of a shoeless, jacket-less college student on the floor of a local mom-and-pop store. But neither party seemed to care very much.

  Peter eventually has to push Wade off when a group of young teens, most likely aged thirteen to fourteen, take to staring down at the pair from the far end of the aisle, giddily whispering to each other and stealing not-so-sneaky glances at the couple. The college student manages to stand up, pulling Wade up with him, and dragging him out of the aisle diligently. They brush past the group of teenagers, and the merc makes a face that he hopes terrifies them.

   "Are you a poet?" Wade casually inquires as they stand in line for checkout, one hand holding a chocolate bar and the other laced through Peter's fingers. The merc's mask is back over his nose, acutely aware that the cluster of teens are still watching the couple intently, while Peter chooses to ignore their prying glances.

   "Uh, I take classes with Ned sometimes," The brunet says, curiously eyeing a magazine with Ezra Miller's chiseled face and painted nails plastered on the cover, "Why?" It was an unusual question, and somewhat out of the blue, but a strangely normal inquiry from the older man; Wade never entirely made sense, but Peter thinks that's why he admires him as much as he does.

   "I like the way you say things," Wade mumbles, pressing a masked kiss to Peter's hair, "I don't understand why you always doubt yourself, your words are pretty- like your face." Peter probably shouldn't be so flattered by Wade's dumb compliment, but he is anyway, heart fluttering in his chest in a way that makes him feel sick in the sweetest way possible. He leans into the older man's side in a silent "Thank you."

   "D'you want anything else?" Wade asks as the cashier scans the chocolate bar and the Ezra Miller magazine that Peter had subtly slipped on to the counter.

   "A pack of Camels?" Peter asks with a coy smile, looking up at the merc with eyes he knew the older man couldn't say no to. Wade hums in half-hearted agreement before turning to the scrawny cashier; His eyes never failed him.

   "But you're getting Viceroys," Wade warns, repeating this to the attendee.

  And then the merc seems to pause, back stiffening in a sort of attention, his lips twisting into his signature smirk. Wade's eyes flicker from Peter's to the cashier's deviously, and then, in a booming voice he confidently adds, "And two bottles of your finest lubricants, sir." Wade assuredly points at the shelf just below the cigarettes, and Peter's freckled face runs red hot. Wade's outburst earns a chorus of giggles from the teens behind him, and Peter thinks he might just die right then and there, sprawled out on the tile floors. He clutches Wade's arm with a viper-like grip, his arm alone tethering the college student and keeping him from collapsing out of sheer embarrassment.

  The cashier barely bats an eye, gingerly depositing the lube and cigarettes into a plastic bag along with Wade's chocolate bar and magazine. The merc takes the bag with an unseen smile, cheerily mumbling a "Thank you," before the two walk out of the convenience store, Peter still stubbornly burrowed into Wade's side.

   "I can't believe you did that!" The college student hisses, pulling the pair to a stop on the sidewalk. Peter shivers slightly, feet aching and uncomfortably cold, hoping Wade will carry him back to his dorm like he had on the way to the market.

   "And I can't believe you're not wearing shoes," Wade quips, once again catching on to Peter's pleading gaze, "Need a ride, baby boy?" The merc crouches helpfully and the teen hobbles on to his back; It's a little awkward, but it's more comfortable than walking around New York in nothing but socks. Plus, Wade smells like coffee and for some unexplainable reason, seems to radiate warmth; The guy's a walking, fast-talking furnace. He slumps on to the older man's back, resting his head in the crook of Wade's neck as they start towards Columbia's campus, humming happily.

  It takes a little over five minutes for the two to walk back to Peter's dorm hall, before discovering that the teen had left his ID in his room and that they'd have to wait for someone with a card to walk through. It's around 8:30 when a group of girls comes stumbling up to the hall, all hearty laughs, and vibrant smiles. One girl, her hair dyed a silky silver, seems to recognize Peter and helpfully lets the pair in.

   "Thanks, Cat," Peter mumbles half-heartedly into Wade's neck, legs still firmly wrapped around his torso. 'Cat' smiles sweetly, eyes lingering on the sleepy college student for far longer than the merc would've like. The older man hastily sidesteps into the elevator as the assemblage of girls wave goodbye and continue down the hall and into the lobby.

   "What floor?" Wade asks quietly, shifting slightly so Peter's more comfortable, "I've never been to your dorm room, baby boy."

   "Twelve," The teen mutters, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the back of Wade's neck, before adding "It's not all that nice." The merc nods slowly as Peter continues to press sloppy kiss after kiss into the partially scarred skin, tongue occasionally darting out to sensually lick at the scars, and sending lovely shudders down Wade's spine that seem to go straight to his dick.

   "Wait a sec, kitten," Wade manages to choke out, "Almost there." Peter quietly hums, pressing one last kiss to the merc's neck before settling against him again, resting his pretty little head on Wade's shoulder. The elevator dings after what feels like an eternity, and the older man steps out of the tight space and into the corridor hurriedly.

   "Room number?" Wade breathes, looking at a small directory-sign lazily hung up on the wall in front of him, the name's of each student on the floor along with their room number written on the poster.

   "Twelve-zero-six," Peter mumbles, and sure enough under Peter and Emre, 1206 is written in big, bold numbers. The door is open when the pair reach the teen's long-awaited dorm room, but Peter doesn't seem all that fazed by it, so Wade doesn't concern himself with it either. He carefully lets Peter slide off his back as he drops his bag to the floor, before taking off his mask and surveying the room curiously.

  Under an open window, pushed into a corner, sits a sturdy looking (and unmade) twin bed, and a plush, white comforter, artistically decorated with green and yellow florals, is lazily thrown over the mattress, with two pillows to match. Peter's laptop sits on top of one cushion, accompanied by two large textbooks with obscure-sounding names, no doubt for his infamous English seminar. In the corner opposite the bed, a baby blue daybed lies. It's covered in scattered papers, and a strew of photographs, along with a few misplaced post-it notes.

  And right next to Wade, Peter's wooden desk sits. It's a mess, covered in a potpourri of pens and pencils and random leaflets of paper. There are arbitrary doodles drawn and various mantras written all over the light wood, some of them quotes Peter may have liked from a book he was reading, a movie he was watching, or from a song. The others were quick and lovely little drawings, some of them tired looking faces or simple landscapes, and others distinguished features such as eyes or a pair of lips, and then what Wade thought of as space fillers; Little hearts, or planets that were merely drawn to be drawn.

  A large assortment of books sit on the furthest edge of the desk, lined up on the beige wall in no particular order. Wade catches the title of one thin book, 'The Man Who Fell to Earth,' and he smiles to himself. Under the wooden workspace sits a black mini-fridge and a clear wastebasket, along with a small cardboard box that reads _ **'EMRE'S GOODS.'**_

  Peter's walls are covered from floor to ceiling in a multitude of film and art prints from a collection of obscure artists and movies that the merc's never heard of (or never cared too). There's the occasional magazine cutout plastered somewhere on the wall, filling the space between print after print, and completing the collage that was the teen's dormitory wall. The whole room _screams_ 'Peter,' and Wade finds it utterly charming.

  But a certain decal in the ensemble of posters and cutouts catches the older man's eye. Directly above where Peter's pillow should be, sits a single dollar bill, pinned to the wall with a thumbtack, and Wade's heart flutters sweetly at the cherished memory. Without thinking, the merc is turning to Peter, picking him up like he doesn't weigh a thing and just sort of holding him close before the boys wrapping his legs around Wade's middle, relaxing against the older man with a soft, contented sigh because Peter really just liked him that much.

   "So, hey," Wade begins, a hand moving to gingerly cup Peter's ass with a teasing smirk, "Who's your stupid boyfriend?"

   "Uh, you are," Peter says with a smirk of his own, freckled cheeks tinted a slight rosy red as he wraps his delicate arms around the merc's neck, giggling softly.

  And Wade just stares disbelievingly at the boy in his arms for a few seconds, because how, _how_ could someone this angelic, this pretty, this _perfect_ be loving on Wade like he was fucking young Leonardo DiCaprio or some beautiful fuck? Even after disappearing without an explanation for a couple weeks, the kid still looked at him like he was _everything_ , and they'd only known each other three-ish months now. There's so much Wade wants to say, so much he wants to apologize for and thank him for. He wants to fucking cry, he thinks.

  Instead, Wade simply says: "Can I kiss you?", his voice a shaky whisper as he leans into the teen, free hand moving to run through his curly hair soothingly.

  Peter purrs melodiously, habitually pressing back into Wade's hand, his lips falling open blissfully. A hardly audible whisper of, " _Yes, okay, please_ ," leaves the teen's lips and then Wade's kissing him for the first time in a month, ever so slowly and so, so sweetly that it may just rot his teeth.

  The pair stumbles to Peter's twin bed, and the teen momentarily moves from Wade's grasp to hastily throw his two textbooks off the bed, and, more carefully, his laptop before finally, clambering back on top of the merc. He's sort of kneeling over the older man, knees firmly planted on either side of Wade's legs, delicate hands affectionately holding the sides of his face as he presses dainty kisses to his forehead. The merc's large hands move to brace Peter's thighs, pulling him forward so that the teen's flush again him, his chest eye-level to Wade.

  The older man's hands then move to tenderly graze over Peter's ass (hiking up his gym shorts), soothingly running up his back to squeeze at his shoulders and lastly, drifting down to cup Peter's oh-so-perfect ass. The teen is considerably smaller than Wade, mind you, and only appears more petite in Wade's grasp, half of Peter's torso easily fitting into one of the merc's bulky hands.

  Peter moves to sit, the bed creaking softly as the teen settles into Wade's lap, his hands drifting from the older man's face to the nape of his neck, thumb caressing the skin softly. Wade, with undeniable reluctance, moves his hands from Peter's ass to instead hold his back, supporting his weight as best he can, and the teen presses into him with a needy whine.

   "What, baby boy?" Wade whispers as Peter ducks his head to trail hot kisses along the side of the older man's neck, "What d'you need?"

   "You," Peter says eagerly, breath falling short and ragged, and looking at the merc wildly before desperately crashing their lips together. The teen's lips feel like _velvet_ on Wade's, satin skin tasting like cherries and cheap tobacco, and the merc absolutely adores it. In a flurry of movement, Peter's baggy shirt is on the floor, revealing an expanse of soft, pale skin and in seconds, Wade's mouthing kisses into the teen's stomach with a toe-curling want, hands firmly wrapped around his torso.

   "Off, off, off," Peter mumbles urgently, pulling at the hem of Wade's sweater desperately and the merc simply nods.

   "Yeah. Just pull it," Wade offers between touches, solely focused on biting and licking at the boy's collarbone like he had in his risque dream a few days prior.

     [And you said It'd never happen.]

     (No thanks to you!)

  Peter falls back onto the bed, breathing so heavily it looked like it hurt, and peering up at Wade through dark lashes, pupils blown with a sort of need.

   "Or I'll pull it," The merc mumbles, breathily laughing to himself before tearing off his sweater like it offended him. Wade glances back down at Peter and is once again blown away by how _ethereal_ he looks. His lithe body lays sprawled out on the comforter in nothing but a pair of too-big gym shorts, a lovely, rose-colored tint spreading from his cheeks, down his neck, and across his heaving chest. Peter's hands pull restlessly at a thin, chain necklace Wade hadn't noticed before, and his curly hair's spread out across the pillow like a crown or halo; _Absolutely angelic_ , Wade thinks, and then, as an afterthought, _My angel_.

  The older man makes a guttural noise, clambering on top of the teen urgently, knees framing Peter's thighs as he presses a covetous, open-mouthed kiss to the teen's pretty lips, with lots of tongue. Peter makes a needy noise, thin arms wrapping around the merc's neck because all the teen can feel, smell, and _fucking taste_ is Wade. He's on top of him, muscular body pressed against the teen in all the right places, and his large hands are _all_ over Peter like he can't decide where or what he wants to touch more. Finally, they settle on Peter's hips, pushing him into the twin mattress, hard enough to leave wine-colored bruises all over his sides.

  Peter's a mess under Wade's unforgiving touch, a beautiful, breathless one at that, but a mess none the less. The teen feels like he should be embarrassed by the desperate noises he makes at the sloppy and slick movements of Wade's lips and tongue, should be abashed by the _needy_ whines and _near-humiliating_ whimpers that he knows make him sound like the deplorably horny teenager Peter so obviously is. But shockingly enough, he's not embarrassed in the slightest, because Wade wants him just as bad, _just_ as urgently as Peter wants him, a notion assured by the sudden downward snap of Wade's hips, grinding into Peter harshly.

  There's a sudden stillness, Peter's velvet lips frozen against Wade's, both men still breathing heavily, before the merc's slowly pulling away from the brunet, propping himself up on the mattress and staring down at the teen with a look of concern and question. Peter's quickly moving from under Wade and off the bed altogether, cupping his nose as he stumbles across his dorm room towards his mini-fridge. He carelessly grabs a piece of paper off his desk before taking a couple ice cubes from the fridge and sauntering back to the twin bed, holding the crumpled paper and ice to his nose with a frown.

   "Is this gonna happen every time I try to get in your pants?" Wade asks teasingly, watching as the teen carefully lies back down on the mattress. Peter lets out a breathy, half-hearted laugh, tilting his head back ever so slightly to stop the onslaught of blood. This was the third time Peter had gotten a nosebleed in Wade's presence, the second occurring on a mostly empty B train at an ungodly hour of the night.

   "Maybe," Peter murmurs, staring up at his ceiling with a wistful sigh. He really hated his dumb nose and his stupid, _stupid_ hormones.

   "It's kinda hot," Wade says nonchalantly, subtly scooting closer to Peter and placing a gentle hand on the teen's thigh, "Guess I'll just have to fuck you through it." The older man pretends he doesn't see the faint blush creeping up Peter's neck or the way the teen slightly squirms under his touch, for Wade's own sanity. It was so easy, _too easy_ to make the kid absolutely fall apart.

   "Guess so," Peter breathes, before crookedly smiling at Wade as he shifts to lie next to him on the small, twin bed, hand still firmly planted on the teen's thigh, "Like Mia Wallace."

   "Yeah," Wade mumbles, cuddling into Peter's side, because, _yeah_ , he could be soft if he so pleased, "Like Mia Wallace."

  And they may or may not have had a light-hearted argument over the 'true meaning' of Pulp Fiction until both parties somehow managed to comfortably fall asleep on Peter's narrow bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks (again, i know) for reading!! lemme know what you think, always appreciated xx


	10. screw you seinfeld!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as predicted, emre is not happy with wade, in fact, he's quite the opposite from cheerful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! super short chapter for today :(( really busy with school and all that jazz, but the next update will b better, i promise!
> 
> song recs:
> 
> candidate - david bowie  
> come softly to me - the fleetwoods

   "Get the fuck out of his bed!" are the sharp, grating words Wade _oh so_ sweetly wakes up to, the warning loudly yelled in his ear by the ever protective and parental Emre, who's glaring at the half-asleep merc with intense displeasure. A shirtless Wade hurriedly slips out of Peter's narrow bed, nearly tripping over the comforter, and stumbling towards Emre's demanding voice. Peter stirs, blinking tiredly at the livid blonde and a dazed merc.

   "What's happening?" Peter slurs groggily, pretty little head peeking out from beneath a plush mountain of sheets, eyebrows furrowing in sleepy confusion. Wade groans lowly, because _holy shit_ , he's just too pretty.

   "Just a sec, baby boy," Wade murmurs over his shoulder, rubbing at his heavy eyes as he turns to face Emre. The blonde's normally put-together appearance is completely disheveled by sleep, truly looking as if he's just woken up. Emre's usually quaffed hair is sticking out at all ends, and he's wearing an oversized, hot-pink shirt that reads _"My god, it's full of stars!"_ in a hideous font, along with a pair of bright red sweatpants that don't quite fit. He's glaring daggers at the merc, looking at him with an intent to kill.

   "Baby boy?" Emre seethes, stepping towards the merc, "How dare you call him that! And after the shit you pulled, I could kill you for so much as stepping near him!" The blonde says it likes he means it, before animatedly pointing at the freckle-faced teen hidden beneath the covers.

   "He was so fucking sad! And worried about you, for _god knows why!_ " Emre continues, accusing finger moving from Peter to Wade's bare chest," He should've been angry if anything! I mean I was angry- and I still am! And worst of all, you made him think it was his fault. You have no idea how badly I wanna punch you right now." Emre is absolutely livid, hostility radiating off the young man as he furiously rambles on, driving his slender finger further into Wade's partially scarred chest.

   "You're an asshole for thinking you can just walk back into his life without consequence," The blonde pauses, tone becoming eerily soft, "Because I can and will ruin your life, the only thing that's stopping me is Peter." Emre's opposing stance seems to deflate as he concludes his rant, and Peter makes a strained noise, toppling out of his bed, appearing a bit disoriented. The kid's _shirtless_ , his loose-fitting gym shorts sitting low on his hips and exposing a trail of purple-black bruises blooming along his sides, in no way helping the older man's case. He stumbles towards the arguing pair, and Emre makes a horrified face, looking disapprovingly from Wade to Peter and back to Wade.

   "What did you do to him?" Emre cries wryly, motioning dramatically from the brunet to the merc. The blonde had always been one for theatrics, this argument no exception from it.

   "What do you _think_ I did to him?" Wade smirks, waggling his eyebrows at the blonde even though he knows he shouldn't, considering Emre's currently livid state, but can't help it. The blonde only looks more aghast, staring at Peter in disbelief. The teens adamantly shaking his head, hurriedly stepping beside Wade.

   "No, _no_ , not like that-," Peter shakes his head vehemently, a deep blush spreading from his face to his chest, "It wasn't- no." Wade is still very aware that Peter's shirtless, and reaches for his previously discarded sweater to hand to the teen, for the merc's own sake. Peter quickly pulls on Wade's burgundy sweater, hiding his blush and bruises. It's a baggy fit, but flattering none the less.

      "I _specifically_ said no sleepovers," Emre says bluntly, deciding to gloss over the wine-colored blemishes on Peter's hips, "And did you guys even talk?" The couple nod in enthusiastic agreement, glancing at each other with small, cheeky smiles. The blonde rolls his eyes exasperatedly, quietly muttering "dorks" under his breath. He looks like he's given up.

      "I hate you guys," Emre mumbles, dragging his hands down his face with an annoyed sigh, "I'll talk to you later Pete." The blonde waves half-heartedly at the pair from over his shoulder, before disappearing into the bathroom defeatedly. Peter blinks at the door in drowsy confusion as he pulls at the hem of his - _Wade's_ \- sweater anxiously.

   "So he's not happy," The older man states flatly, glancing at the teen warily. The merc was as good as dead, and he could tell Peter was worried (probably more so for his friendship than for Wade's imminent demise, which the merc found reasonable).

     (Wade's not a _complete_ idiotic asshole, you guys.)

     [The author is simply horrible at conveying that Wade is just really, _really_ clueless, and not wholly apathetic.]

  
   "Not at all," Peter breathes, shakily smiling at the older man, "It's okay though, I'll talk to him. He's pretty protective, that's all." Wade hums in languid agreement, watching curiously as Peter steps closer to him with a bashful smile, delicate hand moving forward to ghost over the merc's exposed midriff.

     (Errgh.)

     [ . . . ]

   "In that sweater, you're way cuter than Bowie," Wade says almost impulsively, and Peter is once again unsure if it's a genuine compliment but takes it as one nonetheless, the faint blush dusting his freckled nose and cheeks darkening slightly. Wade moves to snake an arm around the teen's waist, large hand resting comfortably on his lower back.

   "Bet you'd still fuck Bowie if you could," Peter mumbles teasingly, and Wade shoots him a disapproving look.

   "Thin white duke era, maybe," The older man contemplates, sucking on his teeth with a click, before cheerily adding, "But I have you now, babe!" Peter's blush only deepens, and Wade starts drawing lazy circles into the brunet's spine, thumb swiping over the far too prominent bone in silent concern.

   "So I've singlehandedly put an end to your Bowie fantasies?" The teen quips after a beat of reflective silence. The older man's avid love for the starman was something Peter came to accept, and being on the same plane of 'adoration' as the late rock legend should and would be taken as flattery. He beams up at Wade, pink lips curved into a charming smile, looking absolutely _smitten_ with the starman-loving idiot (because, he totally, _definitely_ was).

     [If anything, Pete's fueled the Bowie-fantasy fire.]

 

     (Imagine him in a dress! And full-out stardust glam?! _Oh my god._ )

 

     [Not that I'm complaining.]

   "For the most part," Wade answers easily, lips twisting into a knowing little smirk, "No one can beat Bowie."

   "You sure?" Peter pouts, hand softly pressing into Wade's toned stomach, thin fingers gliding over the well-defined muscles, pressuring him to reconsider. The older man chuckles softly, free hand moving to the nape of Peter's neck, before pulling the teen into his chest.

   "Did you mean what you said last night?" Wade asks as casually as he can, large hand running up Peter's neck to gingerly comb through his bed-head. The teen nudges his head into the merc's chest, a small smile pressed against the partially scarred skin.

   "You mean that part about you being an idiot boyfriend?" Peter prompts, voice muffled by Wade's chest.

   "As endearing as that is, I sorta meant the kinda serious convo?" The older man says shakily, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Peter pulls back from Wade slightly, looking up at him with those soft, doe eyes _he adored_ , slender arms wrapping around the older man's middle reassuringly.

   "Of course," He says softly, before playfully punching Wade in the gut, "Just don't fucking leave!" The kid is significantly smaller than Wade, and his half-hearted punch felt more like a tap, but the older man stumbles back anyways, laughing lightly at his petite boyfriend.

   " _Peter!_ Language," Wade chastises, lunging at Peter and grabbing hold of his hips with a devilish smile. The teen looks at Wade with a challenging grin, hands braced on the older man's chest, happily waiting for a reaction.

   "Wanna get breakfast, baby boy?" Wade asks cooly, trying very hard to ignore Peter's prying hands, the older man's thumbs digging into the teens' hips in warning. If Peter pushed on, Wade wouldn't hesitate to pin him to the wall, and the merc didn't have the self-restraint _not too_. Plus, the teen was the opposite of quiet, and his breathy little moans would earn Wade a permanent spot on Emre's death list in the process.

  Peter lets up, hands reluctantly moving from the merc's bare chest to instead wrap around his neck, sighing softly.

   "Yeah, okay," The teen agrees, smiling coyly at Wade, "How 'bout Tom's?"

   "The Seinfeld resturant?" Wade asks with a smirk and Peter merely nods, standing on his tip-toe's to press a quick kiss to Wade's cheek. _He's perfect_ , Wade thinks, _absolutely perfect._

     "But you're gonna need a shirt first." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! lemme know what you think xx


	11. casual acquaintances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> weasel makes an unannounced pop-in, meets peter, and wade starts doubting his career choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty all for 3K hits!!! thats honestly so sick aGHH, i'll say it again and again but i'm so glad y'all are enjoying this and leaving the comments you do!! ly guys smmmm <33 
> 
> (this a lil rushed,, sorry in advance)
> 
> song recs:
> 
> casual acquaintances - the growler  
> 1914 - florist  
> sleepaway - boyscott

  Wade and Peter don't actually end up going to Tom's Restaurant, the place had been jam-packed with excitable tourists, and Wade didn't really feel like having his scars ogled at by an assemblage of out-of-state persons (no offense to them). They instead settled on a quaint crêpe place little ways down from the famed luncheonette that wasn't nearly as crowded.

  Peter is still wearing Wade's wine-colored sweater when they sit down, the merc opting to borrow a large, black hoodie and one of Peter's oversized sleep shirts that both, unsurprisingly, fit snuggly on the older man, bulky muscle and all. He had slept in his jeans, and at this point, the itchy denim had begun to feel like a second skin to Wade. Peter changed out of his baggy gym-shorts, instead clad in a pair of straight-leg Levi's that seemed to hug at the student's thighs and ass in an absolutely _perfect_ way; Wade would be lying if he said he hadn't trailed behind Peter to stare at said sacred ass on their short walk to the little french cafe.

  And now, from across the table, he was gazing at the teen's angelic face, that was equally if not more gorgeous than his ass, blue eyes trained on the slope of the student's nose. The merc found it easy to fawn over anything and everything about the boy.

   "It's rude to stare, y'know," Peter quips, promptly hiding his freckled face behind his menu, much to the older man's dismay.

   "It's kinda hard not too, princess," Wade replies sheepishly, and without seeing the teen, he knows he's turned him into a blushing mess.

   " _Princess?_ " The student scoffs weakly, lowering his menu only slightly to peek up at Wade, and sure enough, a faint pink hue has spread across his freckled face. "You're a nuisance," Peter insults playfully, smiling fondly at his big, dumb boyfriend.

   "But I'm _your_ nuisance," The older man reminds with an unseen smirk, leaning over the table to gingerly flick Peter's button nose. The teen grumbles in something resembling agreement, slumping into his chair tiredly. He looks oddly vulnerable, too thin, and too fragile. The once faint bags under Peter's eyes have grown to a purple-black color, the hue closely resembling the lovely little bruises that decorated his hips. The teen's cheekbones appear sharper, and his cheeks have seemingly hollowed out. While the defined features were _undeniably_ attractive to Wade, he couldn't help but be concerned for the boy.

   "You okay?" The older man asks softly, tone laced with an underlying worry, tugging his blue medical mask under his chin. Wade hated taking the cheap thing off, wearing the flimsy drugstore mask like armor, but for Peter, he could stand a few moments of overwhelming self-consciousness. The boy shrugs, glancing down at the table solemnly.

   "Just school," Peter says, pretty pink lips curving into a lazy smile, "Finals n' stuff, y'know?"

"I actually don't know, Petey," Wade says with a laugh, brushing a curly strand of hair out of the boy's eyes with a grin, "Never went to college, not everyone's smart like you." The teen simply hums, too tired to think up a witty comeback, before delving into a long, languid rant about his upcoming tests. Wade listens, but not really, attention instead focused on the teen's abstract freckles and plump, pink lips. He barely notices the waiter set their crêpes down.

  The merc leans back into the leather seats of the booth, simply admiring Peter as he animatedly raves about his god awful English professor, full lips pulled into a smug, shit-eating grin.

   "He's just-," Peter pauses, fingers combing through his curls in frustration, "An asshole, and the way he grades makes no fucking sense!- And what're you looking at?" The teen shoots him a quizzical look, biting into his crêpe. Wade doesn't respond, smile only growing wider.

 _"What?"_ He asks again, nose crinkling adorably.

    "Nothing," Wade mutters, a look of amusement plastered all over his face.

    "Dork," Peter counters in between bites of his chocolate-filled crepe, trying hard to hide a bashful smile.

  Wade hums, "So you're siding with Emre now, huh?"

  Peter hums right back, flashing the older man a challenging smirk.

    "No sides, babe."

\--

  Many things went unspoken between Peter and Wade.

  In the student's last few months of the school year, Peter had been at Wade and Al's apartment more than he was at his own dorm. It got to the point that Emre would have to visit the merc's flat just to see Peter, despite being his roommate. Peter and Wade didn't talk about how the teen often left his textbooks and unfinished papers on the merc's kitchen table before going to class (a subtle promise he'd be back). Nor did they talk about how Wade had gotten the teen his own set of toiletries _just_ for his apartment, including a tub of that special coconut shampoo Peter liked so much and a bottle of "peachy-pink" nail polish.

     (Y'know, to compliment his lips.)

 

     [Plus, guys who paint their nails are like, _twenty times_ more attractive than the average run of the mill.)

 

     (Scientific fact.)

 

      [Not that Petey needs to be any hotter, I think we might die if that somehow happens.]

  They didn't need to ask each other about it- whatever it was. Wade just knew they didn't need to discuss it, and he liked it that way. There was a silent agreement between the two that this had just become "the norm." Peter was unofficially staying at Wade and Althea's place, and everything was totally, _completely_ fine.

     [We literally freaked the _fuck_ out for the first three weeks 'cause the kid's just so fucking casual.]

     (It's insane.)

  Wade absolutely loved having Peter around, and _yeah_ , not just to stare at his ass, though that was definitely a part of it. The teen gave Wade a semi-valid reason to cook unreasonable amounts of savory foods, claiming Peter was "getting too damn skinny," which in all honesty, he was. Aside from preparing the teen meals of various cuisines, the older man happily bought his 'beloved' numerous and often expensive presents (including a new laptop that Peter forced Wade to return). Having the teen around also meant watching shit-tons of obscure, mostly foreign, movies the merc had never heard of, that always, _always_ ended in couch cuddles. It meant sharing a bed, and Wade quickly learning that Peter had a sleeping schedule almost as fucked up as the transit system (plus, _tons_ of make-outs sessions that, more often than not, turned into bloody messes, though the number was slowly dwindling). The teen meant the lingering scent of cigarettes throughout the apartment, the disappearance of some of Wade's _particularly_ comfy sweaters and shirts, and the older man's relentless attempts at distracting the student from his copious amounts of work through the art of risqué flirting. Peter's late night studying was no exception from Wade's efforts.

   "Petey, It's getting late," Wade pouts, draping his arms over the boy's shoulders restlessly. Tonight, Peter has stationed himself at the kitchen table, sitting cross-legged on one of four uncomfortable dining chairs, with his laptop and textbooks sprawled out in front of him.

   "What time is it?" The teen asks softly, craning his neck to sleepily blink at Wade. The older man presses a delicate kiss to his freckled cheek before saying, "Nearly two in the morning, kitten." Peter sighs, letting his head fall back against Wade's chest indolently.

   "I'm tired," The student groans, (despite his lack of sleep being a known and obvious fact), before looking up at the older man through long, dark lashes, "But I still got some work to do."

   "How 'bout a brain break?" Wade offers softly, fingers absentmindedly drawing circles into the front of Peter's too-big shirt. The teen murmurs something incoherently, toppling out of his seat clumsily, before grabbing at the older man's shoulders with a dazed smile. In seconds, Wade's hoisting Peter up into his arms and carrying him to the leather couch in one quick movement. The teen settles into Wade's laps, sort of curled in on himself as he burrows into the older man's chest. Wade feels around for the remote, hastily turning on Peter's favorite sitcom, Seinfeld, at a low volume, hoping to lull the exhausted teen into a somewhat restful sleep.

   "Quick break," Peter mutters into the merc's shirt, eyes closing gently as he sinks into Wade, "Jus' a couple minutes." The older man hums contentedly, pressing a soft kiss to Peter's hair, before lovingly wrapping his arms around the boy. The pair watches at least four consecutive episodes, Peter half-asleep in Wade's arms as the merc babbles on about the show's continuity errors.

   "It's a show 'bout nothing, Wade," Peter drowsily slurs into his chest, "Not s'pposed to be flowy.”

   "Who's your favorite character?" The older man instead asks quietly, gingerly moving the teen in his lap so that he's more comfortable, his slender body somewhat awkwardly laying across Wade's lap and couch, still firmly cuddled into his chest and arms. Peter hums faintly, pretty pink lips smacking lazily.

   "Kramer, 'minds me of you," The teen mumbles before seeming to drift off, cooing softly as he sinks into Wade's chest, lips falling open in even breathes. The older man carefully moves an arm to cradle Peter's back, hand brushing over the noticeable line of his spine in quiet concern, frowning into the student's hair with a weary sigh. Soon enough, Wade is in his own, odd limbo state of sleep, semi-conscious as he continues to rub circles into the teen's back, blue eyes closed but not entirely resting. A strange feeling of _calm_ washes over the merc, solely concentrating on the rhythmic rise and fall of Peter's chest as he slips further into his haze.

  But Wade’s blissful state lasts mere hours before he’s startled out of his trance by the loud noise of the front door swinging open, hitting the wall adjacent to it with an echoing slam. The eerie sound of shoes dragging against the hardwood floors followed by quiet, pained moans soon fills the once uninterrupted silence of the apartment.

   “Althea?” Wade calls out wearily, slowly getting up from his comfortable spot, being careful not to disturb a sleeping Peter. Althea had disappeared to a bingo tournament earlier that evening and hadn't returned since (Wade had just assumed she was on another one of her sometimes weekly benders). All the merc got in response was another loud, broken groan. He peers down the dimly lit hall, seeing only a silhouette, a shape too tall, too lean, too manly to be Althea. The stranger's walk was ungainly, their arm outstretched to the closest wall for support as they made their way towards Wade.

   “Hey man, hate to interrupt your pity party but-,” Wade starts, before the stranger cuts him off with yet another melancholy sob of pain. The merc narrows his eyes in frustration, taking a deep breath before confidently marching towards the slightly shorter, sobbing stranger in his foyer.

   “Listen, I don’t know who the fuck you are, and I’m sorry you had a bad day, but if you can’t explain what the hell you’re doing in my apartment, I'm gonna have to ask you to get the fuck out,” Wade tries his best to sound demeaning and stern, but is still somewhat cloudy with sleep to form a wholly coherent and effective threat.

  The man sniffles a couple of times, attempting to regain his composure. He turns from the wall and towards Wade, stumbling over himself as he walks into the dim light.

   "Calm the f-fuck down, big shot."

   “Weasel, you fucking _menace!_ Scared the shit out of me”, Wade laughs breathily, smiling awkwardly at Weasel before glaring. The bartender shrugs, flashing Wade a wry smile.

   "What're you doing here man? And are you _crying_? You know Althea hates it when you pop-in," The merc bickers pointedly, tone annoyed and confused, before adding, "I mean, _I_ hate it when you pop-in." The bartender chuckles lowly, adjusting his glasses.

   "I feel so welcome!" He cries a little brokenly, laughing weakly as Wade begins to urgently shush him, glancing at the sleeping form on his couch worriedly. Weasel narrows his eyes at the older man quizzically, wordlessly asking "Why are we whispering?" before following the merc's line of vision to Peter, who's still comfortably curled up on the leather sofa, sound asleep.

   "So _that's_ the twink you've been fucking!" Weasel announces with a smug smirk that could challenge Wade's, his former tears forgotten, "I can see why you've been ignoring me."

    _"Shut up!_ " The older man whispers harshly as he glowers at the bartender, jealousy and an odd possessiveness flaring in his chest, "If you touch him, I'll kill you.

     [So trope-y.]

     (Have some originality!)

   "And that's your job, big man!" Weasel teases with a cynical smile before slyly adding, _"Speaking of,_ You're still not through with the whole Price situation." The older man groans exhaustedly, sauntering over to his kitchenette and leaning against the counter before crossing his arms in front of himself pointedly. Weasel follows suit, making himself at home as he rummages through Wade and Althea's cabinets, grabbing the first, semi-clean cup he can find.

   "You need to kill him," The bartender says blatantly, back turned to the merc as he turns on the sink, "He needed to be dead, like, _yesterday_. Just get it over with."

   "It's not that easy," Wade counters tentatively, glaring at the back of his "friends" head. Things, in general, had become incredibly complicated since, what Wade liked to call, "The France Mishap," but complicated in an objectively good way (like with sincere feelings and all that romantic, cheesy shit). Thingswere getting better mostly because Peter cared for him; the kid was genuinely worried about Wade's well-being, and that took the older man a second or two to process. Peter made Wade feel more like Wade Wilson and less like the mercenary or "weapon" so many others saw him as exclusively.

   "What do you _mean_ it's not that easy?" Weasel scoffs, turning to face the towering man, sipping on his tap water with a scowl, "It's your fucking job, Wade. This is what you do, what you _love_ to do!" The merc winces at Weasel's use of "love," glancing back at a sleeping Peter wearily. Wade had never "loved" killing- _unaliving_ \- people, it wasn't something he necessarily _wanted_ to do but instead, something the man was talented at, and a job that just so happened to pay well.

     [As if that's any better.]

   "I dunno, Weasel. What if I just don't wanna do this shit anymore?"

   "Don't pussy out on me! Why'd you wanna stop?- It's what you're good at. You having an identity crisis or something?" Weasel asks with a sneer. Before the merc can come up with some witty remark, a small voice sounds from behind the not-so-quietly arguing pair.

   "Wade?" Peter croaks, propped up on the mix-matched couch cushions as he glances from Weasel to Wade in tired confusion.

 

   "Shit, uh- Sorry kitten, go to bed, okay? I'll be right there."

 

   " _Kitten?_ Really? I might vomit," The bartender groans dramatically, making a pitiful gagging sound for added effect.

   "Who's that?" Peter asks softly, pulling himself off the beat-up couch and strolling over to Wade, before curling himself around the older man's side stubbornly. The merc grunts, his nose crinkling as if he's smelled something terrible, before grudgingly introducing Weasel to Peter, the angelic boy a mocking difference from the degenerate of a bartender.

   "I didn't want you two to meet like this, _in fact_ , I never wanted you to meet at all, but here we are," Wade murmurs, shooting Weasel a warning look. The two promptly shake hands, Peter sweetly saying "Nice to meet you!", before the bartender is making up some bullshit excuse to leave, setting down his glass and sauntering towards Wade and Al's foyer, yelling rushed goodbyes over his shoulder.

  Weasel is just about to step out of the merc's flat before he teasingly calls "Get it done, _Wilson!_ " With those final words, the scrawny man’s hurriedly disappearing down the dimly lit halls of Wade's apartment complex, the door shutting behind him with an irritating slam.

   "Don't call me Wilson!" Wade calls back a little uselessly, glaring at his front door as if it were to blame for losing his half-hearted argument with his sort-of-friend.

   "He seems nice," Peter comments cautiously, smiling softly as he tugs at the sleeve of the older man's shirt a bit desperately, managing to tether the merc and pull him out of his agitated stupor.

  "Trust me, he's not," Wade grumbles, before catching himself and flashing the teen an apologetic smile, "Now get some sleep, princess. Heaven knows you need it." Peter sticks his tongue out at Wade childishly.

  " _Such_ a sap!" The teen says with a light, tired laugh, smiling softly at the merc. Wade waves a dismissive hand at Peter before ushering the boy to bed. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for reading! lemme know what you think xx


	12. warm honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peter is a perfect cherub and wade is the first to realize this while, of course, surrounded by art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi babes! i am so, so sorry it took me so long to update. first of all, happy new year to all! hopefully 2019 will b better than 2018? oof. 
> 
> secondly, thank you so much for a little over 4000 hits! i feel like i’m repreating myself (but i really do mean it) thank you for taking the time to read my shit, it’s genuinely so cool. even better if you actually like it !
> 
> ..anyway short update cos i got finals but hope you guys enjoy it nevertheless 
> 
> song recs:
> 
> fangs - matt champion  
> warm honey - willow smith  
> have you ever been (to electric ladyland) - jimi hendrix

  Wade Wilson doesn't talk or so much as think about Weasel and Lucien Price for a blissful period of time. 

 

  Nor does Wade follow Weasel up on his little emotional outburst, knowing the bartender would never let his guard down around the merc unless he was drunk or high, of which Weasel was probably both. The pop-in had been embarrassing for the both of them, and Wade felt that Weasel needn't be reminded, so the merc resorted to a near three-month silence, void of the bartender and his greasy hair.

 

  Wade filled the gap with an abundance of a certain freckle-faced teen who completely inebriated the hopeless man bringing him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a particularly rainy Sunday afternoon.

 

   "This line is way too long for a damn museum," Wade whines, pouting at his petite boyfriend in absolute protest. The older man could easily think up three other things he could be doing with said boyfriend, two of the three including cherry-flavored condoms and the third incorporating tacos, a movie, and his leather couch.

 

  Peter shrugs half-heartedly, further cuddling into Wade's side, "Who knew there were so many nerds in New York?" Peter would admit, the line was a little ridiculous, starting at around 82nd street and making its way down to 80th, the sidewalk a sea of umbrellas and food carts. It seemed everyone in the city had similar rainy day plans, whether they were at The Met or the MoMA.

 

   "True dorks go to Forbidden Planet, thank you very much," Wade corrects, pulling Peter closer to his side and lowering their shared umbrella ever so slightly as they step forward, the line moving at a glacier pace.

 

  Wade had been to The Met two or three times, but only ever for jobs, and the merc had never gotten the chance to truly appreciate the museum in all its so-called glory. Wade probably wouldn't have gone on his own accord if not for Peter's prying, who would not stop talking about how great the galleries were and how he couldn't _believe_ the older man had never fully experienced the place. So when the teen's highly anticipated summer break finally started up, and it just so happened to be raining (Peter's favorite kind of weather), the student insisted that they absolutely _had_ to visit, and Wade obviously couldn't say no.

 

  Turns out, waiting out in the cold and pouring rain for almost forty minutes is totally worth it for Wade because as soon as the pair step through the revolving doors Peter refuses to leave the older man's side, cuddled up against him like his young life depended on it. He expertly guides Wade through the halls of the museum, eager to show the merc some of his favorite galleries. Wade, of course, takes the glaring opportunity and coins as many art-centric pick-up lines as he can.

 

   “Are you a piece of art? Cause I'd like to nail you to a wall," The older man lowly whispers to Peter as the teen studies an ancient Maori mask, the shitty line almost immediately met with intense blushing on Peter's part. 

 

   "Idiot," The teen grumbles, taking the older man by the arm and dragging him into the hall of European Sculpture and Decorative Arts.

 

   " _What_?" Wade asks in faux innocence, a subtle smirk crossing his face, "If I were an art critic, I'd give you a _ravishing_ review." Peter's cheeks match his peachy-pink nails.

 

   “Your jokes are almost as bad as mine," The teen mumbles with an eye roll, before yanking the older man towards a refurbished, Parisian hotel room from the early 1900s. Peter looks absolutely _ecstatic_ as he presses up against the glass, his deep brown eyes lighting up at the sight of the intricately carved wall trim and baby pink, tasseled curtains. It's the cutest and dorkiest thing Wade's seen in a while, standing just behind the boy as he studies the near ancient living space.

 

   "This is my favorite display," The boy mumbles to Wade, gawking at the fine china and smooth statue artistically arranged on the clothed table in the middle of the century-year-old room, "It's gorgeous."

 

   "Not as gorgeous as you!"

 

  Peter rips his gaze from the beautifully upholstered chairs to shoot a playful glare at Wade, who flashes the boy a bashful smile in return.

 

   "C’mon," Wade snickers, pacing forward to wrap his arms around the teen's middle and rest his head in the junction of Peter's neck and shoulder, "You make it too easy, kitten."

 

  It's Peter's turn to snigger, attention still entirely focused on the display in front of him as Wade, probably for the 110th time that day, simply relishes in the boy's presence. Because, Peter, as overplayed as the notion was, was good for him- _marvelous_ actually.

 

  Althea reminds Wade of Peter's heavenly qualities almost on the daily, the old woman loving the boy nearly as much as the merc thinks- _keyword_ , _thinks_ \- he loves him. The kid's dreamlike, _otherworldly_ , and the older man feels _utterly_ undeserving of the teen; For once, Wade and Al agree on something. In Wade's eyes, there could be nothing wrong with his darling, his kitten, his cherub- _he's_ _perfect_. And maybe it was wrong to hold Peter up to such a high standard, to place him on a pedestal, but how could he not? The merc practically _worshipped_ the boy, and it sometimes bothered Wade that others didn't seem to do the same, didn't see Peter in the same light.

 

  Peter doesn't turn heads when he walks in a room, and at first, Wade couldn't understand it; How could this angelic boy _not_ make people look twice? The merc wanted nothing more than to kiss those pretty pinks lips he'd come to adore, cup and caress his flushed cheeks, and count the freckles on his face because _he's_ _a_ _sap_. 

 

  But Wade soon learned that Peter never wanted to turn heads, but was instead the warmth of the room, his smile emanating the friendliest and _softest_ aura humanly possible. He's delicate, treating everyone he meets with a sort of gentleness like someone who knows all to well the pain someone can possess without openly showing it. Wade felt special, almost _honored_ that he was one of few to truly understand and bask in the teen's sheer heavenliness. Peter's like warm honey or lemon tea, leaving a comforting, sickeningly sweet taste in your mouth that just makes you feel safe, _content_. But only fools are satisfied, and Billy Joel knows this, Wade knows this, Althea knows this, and while she supports everything and anything "Peter," she tells the merc to remember that the teen is still, quite in fact, human rather than the spitting image of Wade's dream boy.

 

   "He'll inhale you, exhale you, and if you're not careful, leave a nicotine stain on your soul," Al had warned; The elderly woman was admittedly right. Peter had an _unfathomable_ amount of power over Wade that the teen probably didn't even realize he had; Peter could break his heart so easily, _too_ _easily_ , and that's why Al insisted that the merc be careful. _Remember_ _he's_ _not_ _perfect_.

 

  Wade breathily laughs into the nook of Peter's neck, because, _of_   _course_ , the one thing evidently wrong with the near-angelic boy was that he may just be perfect.

 

  Peter squirms under the feeling of the merc's hot breath on his neck, giggling as he exclaims, "Stop!- _Wade!_ ", and the merc lets up, before turning the teen to face him with a grin.

 

   "You have the _stupidest_ look on your face right now," Peter sighs with a dumb smirk; Wade probably looks absolutely smitten, but he couldn't care less, nor could he deny it, because he was in fact, absolutely _inebriated_ by the boy. 

 

   "I like you, _duh_ ," The older man says matter-of-factly, quirking a playful yet inquisitive eyebrow at his boyfriend, before taking the teen’s hand in his.

 

   "You have a crush on me?" Peter gasps, his lips twisted into a stupid smile as he intertwines his fingers with Wade's, "How embarrassing."

 

   "Peter, _we're_ _dating_."

 

   "How could I forget?"

 

  Wade sighs, squeezing the teen’s hand,”Shuddup, and gimme a kiss." And Peter, being the giver that he is, provides.

 

Wade’s obsessed, to put it simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! lemme know what you think xx


	13. authors note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> announcement

hey loves! i’m really sorry to disappoint, but i’m getting a little bored of this fic and i’m not really sure where i’m going with it. i have a new, slightly more compelling idea that’s similar yet very different, in terms of plot. i’ll b posting it (hopefully) soon, and i’m really hoping you’ll enjoy it!

again, i’m very sorry to end this baby, but i promise i’ll try my best to make up for it ! this honestly went a lot better than i could’ve imagined, and i’m so thankful people actually enjoyed it.

love u , xx


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